


isabel lovelace is saved

by gortysproject



Category: Wolf 359 (Radio)
Genre: Brief Visit To Hell, F/F, Gun Violence, Half of them are demons, M/M, Magic, Multi, Supernatural (tv show) au, The other half are hunters, Vaguely follows the canon storyline
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-27
Updated: 2018-04-02
Packaged: 2019-02-22 16:23:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 16
Words: 29,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13170675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gortysproject/pseuds/gortysproject
Summary: Running a business is hell. Running Hell is just business. [supernatural au]





	1. prologue

**Author's Note:**

> this is my piece for the wolf 359 big bang 2017, winter edition! 
> 
> as of writing this note, the piece is not yet finished, so the first few chapters will be uploaded and then the rest will be updated afterwards. hope yall enjoy!

Marcus Cutter was an ambitious man. He had the knack for business from childhood; he struck deals with everything and everyone in his life. He manipulated, persuaded, even _threatened_ the world into giving him what he wanted. And every time, just for him, the world pulled through. He had everything he needed—a smile with too many teeth, eyes that gaze a little too warmly, and a vision for the future.

Marcus Cutter was an ambitious man.

He’s still just as ambitious, but it would be wrong to call him a man.

 

* * *

 

 

Warren Kepler was a good lawyer and a better spy. He was also chiselled into a leader – strong, proud, with a jaw tilted to the sky and shoulders set to bear the weight of the world. It took time, effort, to restructure him into something weaker, something with hands clasped behind its back and knees pressed into the ground, but Marcus could never back down from a challenge. With a thumb brushing over his jaw, and fingers massaging into the shoulders prepared to lift the world, he turned Kepler into exactly what he needed him to be.

It all began when he purred, “Step into the elevator, Warren. We’re going to have a little chat.”

He kissed him in that elevator, fierce enough to steal his breath away. It wasn’t the only thing he stole. And, a moment later, dizzy with success and elated with plans slotting elegantly into place, Cutter curled his empty hand into a fist to steal Kepler’s breath away once again.

 

* * *

 

 

Daniel Jacobi was a gifted ballistics expert, a loyal right hand, and, as Kepler would find out in due time, an excellent kisser. Holding someone’s life in his hand is an intoxicating experience; binding their soul to you in a contract so deep it’s written in the blood of your borrowed veins and the ashes of your mangled essence is even better. Jacobi arches his spine when Kepler presses against it, hangs his head when Kepler nudges it, and makes an endless night bearable with his company when Kepler asks for it.

Perhaps Kepler should be ashamed of himself, pulling a puppet’s strings for no reason other than that he _can_ , but shame is a problem for humans. He bypassed shame long before he raked his dirty nails across his subordinate’s soul.

 

* * *

 

 

Alana Maxwell was talented with technology, which made her perfect for Goddard Futuristics. She was also, as Kepler would point out, good at talking to things that weren’t human. This made her perfect for the _real_ Goddard Futuristics. Her days are spent working, and her nights are spent fretting. Jacobi is there to push the hair out of her eyes when she remembers where she belongs.

Sometimes, as newfound siblings, they wonder if they made the right choice. There’s no point in dwelling on the past. Not when they have a future to build.

 

* * *

 

 

Alexander Hilbert believes in life after life, and death is a mere stepping stone to this. He is not a religious man—could _anyone_ be, knowing the things he knows?—but he understands that death is not the end. This is good news. Where something is not the end, there is progress to be made, boundaries to be pushed against, success to celebrate and curiosity to satisfy.

A man knocked on his door, in 1989, when the breeze was harsh and mistrust was rampant, and asked him for a little help. He should’ve said no. He should’ve said no. He should’ve said no.

He said yes.

 

* * *

 

 

Renée Minkowski is vengeful and bloodied, but she is also practical and smart. She understands loss in a way few ever will, and she hit the road as soon as her husband was murdered by something that should never have existed. Thanks to her, it no longer does.

Goddard Futuristics likes Renée Minkowski because she is constantly driven to do better in the world (plus, having a hunter under your thumb is never a bad idea); she believes in a world without monsters, and Goddard could hardly agree more.

They’d never actually admit that they _are_ the monsters.

 

* * *

 

Doug Eiffel wants his daughter back.

_It’s a tragic story,_ Cutter said to Rachel, not a hint of sympathy in his tone—in fact, he sounded gleeful. She continued walking briskly by his side and said nothing. _He tried to save his daughter from a siren, you see, but he had no idea what it was. Only that it wasn’t human! So the daughter gets deafened, Doug was entirely useless, almost gets them both killed trying to escape, and now he’s in prison for attacking the kid, and—really, Rachel, where’s your sense of humour? It’s almost Shakespearean, this_.

Rachel raised an eyebrow at him and asked _, and you want him for this job because…?_

Cutter doesn’t answer. Before he can, he stops in front of a door, pushing it open with a neat flourish to reveal the purpose of their visit and the future of their company. _Ah. Doug. Here you are_.

Prison visiting hours were always so awkward.

 

* * *

 

 

Hera is sheltered. Goddard is the only thing she has ever known, the only thing she has ever believed in, and the only thing she has ever wanted. There’s a world outside, somewhere, but she learned long ago to never question it. It was a hard lesson to learn; sometimes, she lies awake at night, thinking over the blank spots in her memory and praying to a deity she knows better than to believe in that she might one day find out the truth.

Intelligence like hers is unusual, though. Loyalty like hers is manufactured. Free will like hers is fake.

 

* * *

 

Isabel Lovelace is saved.


	2. midnight monster hunt

“Are we there yet?” Eiffel asks, jamming his feet up on the dashboard for the third time since they pulled out of the motel. Flashes of trees skim by them from either side, as the dirt path generously labelled a _road_ winds through the forest. “I’m kinda super hungry. And I need to pee.”

Teeth gritted, Minkowski replies like a rehearsed mantra, “Feet off the dashboard, food’s on the backseat, and you should’ve peed when we stopped.” She swerves the car on the empty road, hitting a bump in the uneven ground but throwing Eiffel off-balance. It’s worth it to see him take his feet down.

“Okay, _Mom_ , I didn’t realise I was back in middle school.” With a huff, Eiffel blows his fringe out of his eyes. “I mean, _hungry_. Like, _actual food, let’s stop at a burger place_ hungry. Not—”

“We stopped off for burgers yesterday,” Minkowski interrupts, hands steady on the wheel and eyes steady on the road ahead. “You keep up that diet, you’ll die in a week.”

Eiffel groans, head thunking against the window. Minkowski glances over at him. “You know,” she continues, “if you’re really that bored, you _could_ pull your weight and take over at the wheel at some point.”

“Okay,” Eiffel says, “I’ll never be _that_ bored.” Minkowski glances over again in time to see, and hear, his fingernails begin to agitatedly tap against the side of the door. She refrains from commenting on it.

Half a minute later, Eiffel tugs out his cell phone, slouching in his seat while he flicks through his contacts to find someone specifically. Whoever he decides on, Minkowski can’t see, but he opens the call to speakerphone before they even pick up. The dull tone of the dial hums for a minute, before…

“Heeeello?” asks Hera. “Officer Eiffel?”

Eiffel relaxes visibly at the sound of his friend’s voice, a grin curving his lips as he replies. “Hey, baby. You know I’m not _actually_ anything to do with the military, right? Not like Lieutenant M over here.”

“You’re still subject to the paramilitary structure Goddard Futuristics adopted for all their hired hunters,” Hera explains, and Eiffel rolls his eyes. They’ve had this conversation before. “And don’t roll your eyes at me.”

He sits up a little straighter.

“Anyway,” Hera continues, brushing through the conversation, “I presume you called because you arrived at the set destination and you want to know why Goddard actually sent you there?”

“Eeeh,” Eiffel says intelligently. “How about, _we haven’t arrived but I’m super bored so can you tell me now_?”

There’s a hint of desperation in his voice. Hera must notice it. “Well, normally I’d have to connect through to Dr Hilbert to verify that this is okay,” she says, and pauses patiently for Eiffel to groan like a child. “But I might be able to make an exception for you.”

“ _Yes_. You’re the best, sweetheart.”

“There was a noticeably large surge of power yesterday evening,” and now Hera sounds like she’s reading from a textbook or narrating a documentary, “just along the coastline. It cut the electricity to three cities and all the surrounding areas. Normally this might indicate demons, but we know for a fact that demons weren’t involved.”

“How do you—” Minkowski tries, but Hera cuts her off.

“This also could be a theoretical sign that an angel is on Earth, but Heaven hasn’t been opened in centuries. There’s no reason to suggest it would be now. Nothing _too_ dramatic, world-changing, or apocalypse-inducing has happened, so Heaven should be keeping to itself.” She pauses. “Goddard wants you to scout the area and see if you can find anything that could explain what happened. I sent you the location yesterday but, just so you’re aware, it is a _literal_ forest.”

A sigh escapes Eiffel’s parted lips. “Whoo,” he says monotonously. “Midnight monster hunt in a forest. Let’s get those Until Dawn vibes going.”

“They want us to investigate a power surge?” Minkowski asks, doubtful. “Don’t they have fancy, high-tech equipment for that? Or, you know, electricians? _Anything_? I’m not exactly sure what they’re expecting _us_ to find.”

Hera sighs, and the sound is crackly over Eiffel’s cell. “Goddard used their _fancy, high-tech equipment_ already,” she replies. “That’s how they tracked down the problem to the forest. Only, the forest isn’t actually linked up to—or anywhere _near_ —any power grids. Hence why they want boots on the ground for this problem. Sometimes, a pair of eyes on a situation can do more than a hundred basic scanning programs.”

“Where’s Hilbert?” Eiffel asks, shifting the conversation. “I thought you two were, like, contractually bound to work your shifts together.”

“Ugh, don’t remind me,” Hera grouses, and both Eiffel and Minkowski snort affectionately at the irritation underlying her voice. “But I don’t know. He’s just been, like, _elsewhere_ , ever since this happened. The power surge, I mean. I don’t know why? But I got the go-ahead to keep manning the research centre by myself, so I’m not complaining.” She pauses. “Did you know there’s a restricted section here? It’s called the Black Archives.”

Eiffel whistles lowly. “Okay, Indiana Jones. Just don’t get your face blown up by that crystal skull.”

“I don’t understand that reference,” Hera replies with the learned tolerance of anyone who has had the pleasure of being Eiffel’s friend for multiple years. “But I think you’ve used it before, so you need to step up your game either way. Anyway, I can’t get into the Archive, it’s on a different floor and the button for it straight up doesn’t exist in the elevator.”

Even Minkowski looks impressed. “How’d you find out about it?”

Hera hesitates. “I… overheard a conversation or two,” she says noncommittally. “There are a lot of new people in the office today, actually. They looked like hunters, like you guys, but more… professional. One of them got to take a special elevator ride to a floor that doesn’t exist, and I was…” Another pause. “In the general vicinity.”

With a chuckle, Eiffel leans back in his seat. “Hey, Minkowski, our little girl’s all grown up into a teenage rebel.”

“You’re a bad influence,” Minkowski replies, deadpan.

“Okay,” Hera interrupts, “I’ve gotta go. Call me if you find anything.”

Minkowski leans towards the phone fractionally. “Will do, Hera. And take care of yourself, okay? Black Archives sounds a little close to the bone as far as Goddard’s secrets go, and we don’t need you getting fired for breaking protocol.”

“Yes, sir.” A moment later, the line goes dead, and Eiffel spins the cell in his hand to tuck it back into his pocket.

A moment of silence passes. Another moment follows.

“Sooo,” Eiffel says slowly, and Minkowski sighs inwardly to prepare for whatever ridiculous comment he’ll make next. “About that burger. And the toilet break. And the—”

“Give me strength,” she mutters.

 

* * *

 

“Found anything?”

Eiffel’s voice echoes slightly in the dark forest, and at the sound, a handful of birds fly from the treetops above them. It’s cold; Minkowski can see her breath steam up into the air in front of her, and she _knows_ her nose has gone pink, but it’s a small blessing that Eiffel has yet to comment on it, _Rudolph_. She finds it almost funny, that they’ve only been working together a handful of months but she can already predict the majority of things he’s going to say and do.

A job like this brings people closer together. When it’s just the two of them on the open road, suffering endlessly long journeys, ominous messages from Command and every kind of monster they could imagine sticking a knife into, it’s easy to get close in a short space of time.

Of course, he’s still doubtlessly the most annoying man she’s ever worked with, but the fact that she’s working with _someone_ nowadays should be considered a blessing in itself. Besides, Eiffel is a loyal partner. (The amount of times he’s pushed her out of the line of fire almost rivals the amount of times she’s had to do it back, so he can’t be a _complete_ hindrance.)

“Nothing,” she calls back, flashlight swerving to look back at the trail they’ve already followed before looking ahead again. They had to abandon the car a couple of miles back to get to the coordinates Hera pointed out, and as the leaves crunch underfoot and the night air grows stiffer, Minkowski begins to wonder if they should’ve just left the case until morning. It’s not like anybody’s in danger—a power outage might be a sign of something more sinister, but nobody’s dead yet.

“I’m not even sure what we’re supposed to be looking _for_ ,” Eiffel says, slightly breathless. “I mean, I got all the regular scouting going on—blood, clothes, footprints. _Paw_ prints. But none of those would—”

He cuts off when they hear a noise ahead of them. It was nothing more than a twig snap, but both Eiffel and Minkowski swiftly point their flashlights towards the sound, scanning the area hastily. Minkowski’s hand twitches for her gun.

Their respective flashlight beams cross over at the same time to face a fox, frozen in surprise for half a second before scampering away. Eiffel sighs.

“Maybe he caused the power surge,” he jokes, and pushes a gloved hand through his unruly hair in a way they both pretend isn’t nervousness. “Jeez, this place is capital-C creepy. I thought I’d be over the spooky forest thing by now, but… I dunno. I dunno why forests are so much scarier than anything else.”

“You can get attacked from all angles,” Minkowski replies, as calm as if she were discussing a crossword. “Most places aren’t completely wide-open spaces. There’s a set path, like a road, or a fence, or something. But here…” She shrugs. “Something could come at you from eight o’clock just as easily as it could from three. You’re exposed.”

Raising his eyebrow, Eiffel replies, “And you’re weirdly analytical about your fears,” he responds. “Got it. I mean, I can’t say I’m surprised, but—”

“Being scared of something is only useful when you know _why_ you’re scared,” she snaps, slightly defensive. A beat of silence passes between them. “Besides, I’ve been making good on the free therapy package this job comes with.”

“ _Seriously_?” Eiffel asks. “I tried it, like, once, and this old lady made me lie down on a couch and started being all—” He ahems, and when he continues talking, his voice is far more effeminate. “ _So, Doug, do you think your totally rational fear of the huge monsters trying to eat your face off every time you go out and fight them is linked to your fear of the monsters inside you that you can’t escape?_ So I noped the hell outta there.”

Minkowski snorts despite herself, and she sees Eiffel grin out of the corner of her eye. “Yeah, okay,” she concedes. “They get a little intense sometimes. But it’s only—”

She doesn’t get to finish her thought, though, because something smacks into her from a very coincidental eight o’clock and pushes her to the ground.

“Minkowski!” Eiffel yells, tugging out his gun just as her assailant pulls hers from her waistband. She tries to push them off, but they push down on her chest, trapping her on the ground and manoeuvring to kneel on her arms. Minkowski cries out.

All of this happens in the space of a second, and by the time Eiffel’s pistol is raised, the barrel of Minkowski’s own gun is pressed calmly against her forehead. “You want your friend to survive,” a voice says, smooth, unwavering, and the barrel presses down just slightly against Minkowski’s skin, “you put that gun down.”

A second passes, and then another. Then, with a shaky exhale, Eiffel bends down slowly to put his pistol on the dirt beneath them. “I’m sorry,” he starts, but Minkowski interrupts him.

“It’s okay. You’re doing fine.” There’s an edge of fear in her voice, but she prays she sounds collected enough to rival this stranger. Her head doesn’t move, but her eyes flicker from Eiffel to the face above her. The night is dark, but the moon is bright enough for her to make out the stranger’s features. A moment later, Eiffel’s flashlight swivels to face her. They both wince at the sudden brightness.

“Here’s how this is going to go,” the woman starts, still calm. “You’re going to give me your money. You’re going to give me a phone. You’re going to give me a map. Then I’m going to tie you up and leave you here so you can’t follow me.” She pauses. “Got it?”

Eiffel clears his throat. “I’m not a fan of that plan.”

“You know,” the woman responds carefully, “I don’t think I care.”

“Who _are_ you?” Minkowski asks, and it feels like a risk to just pose the question, but it seems to catch the lady off-guard enough that Minkowski doubts she’ll get killed just for asking. Besides, if she didn’t care about killing them, she’d kill them. The fact that she wants to leave them tied up might be a small mercy.

_Or it might mean that there’s something bigger and more carnivorous hanging out in this forest,_ _too_ , her mind supplies traitorously. _Leaving you as an easy target would be very convenient in letting her escape_.

“You’re Goddard,” the woman says, and it’s not a question. “I overheard your conversations. I _know_ you’re Goddard. How do you _not_ know who…” She pauses. “I thought you were the—” Abruptly, she collects herself, resuming her cool mask of professionalism and flicking stray hairs out of her eyes. “Captain Isabel Lovelace,” she introduces.

The name registers nothing to Minkowski, and one glance to Eiffel says the same about him. Lovelace sighs. “So you’re in the dark,” she says. “Fine. But when you do eventually get out of here, and when you eventually crawl back to Cutter’s doorstep,” and she leans in, now, Minkowski actually able to feel the heat of her breath on her face, “tell him I’m back.”

Minkowski exhales nervously.

Lovelace sits up, and there’s a hint of a smile on her face now. Slowly, carefully, she finishes, “I want him to know he’s going to die.”


	3. any good promotion

“Isabel… Lovelace?”

The doubt is evident in Kepler’s tone. He never met her in person; she was a little too dead for him to introduce himself by the time he actually found out her name. Still, his tone is measured, expectant—being surprised is one thing, but being thrown off is something he hasn’t experienced in a _long_ time.

Cutter’s smile is too tight and Kepler knows the look in his eyes, the anger burning beneath them. “Yes, Warren, keep up. Isabel Lovelace. She’s _alive_.”

“Human?” Kepler asks. Cutter nods. “I’ll… presume this was the power outage along the coast.” Another sharp nod. “Sir, how do you actually _know_ it’s her?”

Cutter leans across his desk, hopping up to sit on it and pressing a button on his computer. From it, there’s a slightly crackly, low-quality broadcast, and Kepler’s eyebrows draw together in confusion as he listens to it.

“ _Captain Isabel Lovelace_ ,” says a voice, before pausing. “ _So you’re in the dark. Fine. But when you do eventually get out of here, and when you eventually crawl back to Cutter’s doorstep_ ,” and this prompts Kepler to raise his eyebrows in mild interest, “ _tell him I’m back_.” There’s a brief rustle, and then— “ _I want him to know he’s going to die_.”

“I don’t recall her being so dramatic,” Kepler says when Cutter switches off the broadcast.

Lips twisting into a smirk, Cutter replies, “That’s because you didn’t know her. Isabel was _righteous_ , for want of a better word. Irritatingly so. Nosy, too.” Kepler nods; he remembers this much. He remembers being dispatched to make sure her entire crew was killed for that very reason.

He stays where he is, hands clasped behind his back obediently. “Sir,” he starts, “do you need me to kill her again?”

Cutter laughs humourlessly. “Warren, you make it sound like you did it _last_ time.”

He didn’t. Their retired hunter and researcher Alexander Hilbert took out the entire group. “Maybe you should’ve given the job to me,” he replies, smirking, allowing himself this moment to poke fun at Cutter’s past mistakes. “I would have actually been able to _kill_ her.”

Cutter doesn’t respond cheerfully. In fact, he shakes his head. “I don’t want you to kill her again. I just want you to find out why she’s back. What she remembers.” A muscle twitches in his jaw. “And I want you to _bury_ the rumours about Heaven coming back to play catch before they take root. Got it?”

Kepler hesitates. He’s never seen Cutter so agitated before. “Yes, sir,” he manages. Cutter waves in a signature, childish style, indicating that Kepler’s dismissed, but he pauses before he goes. “Would you like me to include Jacobi and Maxwell on this mission?”

There’s a momentary pause. “Take Daniel,” Cutter replies. “I know you enjoy his company. Alana has… another job, for the moment.”

 

* * *

 

Jacobi is asleep.

It’s not an uncommon occurrence. Kepler might find it easy to forget that Jacobi needs sleep, were he not doing it all the time. But the night is dark, and cold, and empty, and the road stretching ahead of them is one they can’t speed through without suspicion. Jacobi’s soft snoring fills the silence, and Kepler stays where he is, ignoring him, eyes fixed ahead.

Jacobi sleeps through the foggy reflections of the city lights and he sleeps through the bumpy nightmare of the tiny dirt road shortcuts. Kepler’s grip on the wheel through their hours of driving does not falter, though. His eyelids don’t droop. His attention does not waver—except, of course, for when Jacobi’s head landed on his shoulder, and the junction was too busy for him to be able to push him away.

His mind does wander when he allows it to, though. All this contact with Cutter pushed his memories back to a time when he was human, frail, standing in an elevator and being offered the job opportunity of a lifetime. Of _eternity_ , he supposes.

Like a good conclusion to any sweet deal, Cutter had kissed him, and he hadn’t known at the time just what that meant. He kissed back, of course—the man is remarkably charming, and it’s not like Kepler would say _no_. The two of them had stumbled out of the elevator directly into Cutter’s office, pressed against the desk, hands brushing over waists and hips and _crotches_ —

Kepler finished in Cutter’s hand, breathing heavily, so high on euphoria with the day’s events that he didn’t notice the fine print, the terms and conditions, the barrel of a gun pressing against the column of his throat. Cutter pulled the trigger.

Death had hurt.

Hell wasn’t so bad.

It broke him down, restructured his soul, carved him into the killer he is today. Without it, he’d be nothing. It was what Cutter wanted from him, and he was happy to provide.

He resurfaced, topside, with black eyes and black smoke and black humour, re-inhabiting his old body; Cutter pulled out all the stops for that, because _after all, Warren, you were so pretty_. And a handful of years passed, but just like with any good promotion—Major Kepler, _Colonel_ Kepler—he gained new responsibilities.

Black eyes turned red.

Daniel Jacobi stood in his office, a crumpled-up business card in his hand, wide-eyed with hope and fear and confusion, and he walked forward with the utmost obedience when Kepler crooked his finger, beckoned him to step closer. _I’m about to offer you an opportunity you’ll never get the chance to accept ever again_ , he told him, murmured like a dirty secret, a confession.

For a man with nothing left to lose, words like those are gospel. Kepler can’t be sure, not even now, but he thinks Jacobi may have even been the one to lean in, kiss him, and seal the deal for him.

Hiring Maxwell had been more awkward, naturally, but selling your soul to a demon is an ancient deal and Cutter is too amused by the seductive, _archaic_ tradition of sealing a deal with a kiss to bother using his power as the King to change it. Still— _I thought Goddard was a tech conglomerate_ , Maxwell said, doubtful, and Kepler chuckled.

It always took time, patience, to explain the intricate ideals behind Goddard’s structure— _yes_ , they research energy, _yes_ , they build high-tech weaponry and clean water systems and save the world one department at a time, and _yes_ , Earth’s population bows down before them for their infinite kindness, but Cutter isn’t interested in being nice to people. He’s interested in _controlling_ them.

While it seemed counterintuitive to Maxwell, to _everyone_ who knew, that Goddard Futuristics was both run by the King of Hell _and_ hiring people to control the monsters that had directly spawned from it, Kepler understood. There’s no way to build an empire when rogue vampires—werewolves—shapeshifters— _poltergeists_ are terrorising the population, and there’s no way the population would allow them the power without _some_ incentive.

“Running a business is _hell_ , Warren,” Cutter had told him once. “But running Hell? That’s just business.”

So Kepler built his team. A trigger-happy ballistics expert with a clean desperation to follow orders, and a sharpshooter with a doctorate in mythological traditions and creatures. Strategic Intelligence, Section 5. Both of them handing their souls over to him. Both of them inevitably following his path, sooner or later.

But for now, Jacobi and Maxwell are human.

Jacobi stirs in the seat next to Kepler, and Kepler takes this moment to nudge him off his shoulder. It’s a gentle movement; he isn’t kind, _don’t be ridiculous_ , but waking Jacobi up comes with far larger consequences than letting him sleep. He can’t be bothered to deal with all the complaints tonight.

Kepler’s mind casts back to an exercise in self-control, when the stakeout was dull, the two of them were alone, and Jacobi had slept on Kepler in the backseat—cheek pressed against Kepler’s chest, body bracketed by Kepler’s legs, snoring softly in some bizarre impersonation of a particularly affectionate cat. And through the entirety of his nap, Kepler had stayed there, inhumanly still, rejecting every urge to push him off.

In a strange, uncomfortable way, he had enjoyed the experience. He decides not to read into it.

He pulls onto a highway, and the license plate in front of him is recognisable from what Cutter sent through for him. The windows are tinted—he can’t make out who exactly is inside. Regardless, he begins to tail it.

“Wake up, Mr Jacobi,” he says, and Jacobi scrambles to attention with bleary eyes and mussed hair. “Or you’ll miss all the fun.”

 

* * *

 

Floor three is not particularly interesting to Maxwell—she has been there before, of course, with its wide archives on mythology, its leather-bound books and spell-bound librarians, its call centres for hunters to fall back on and pretend, _yes, officer, this is my department, I work for the FBI, of course my badge isn’t fake_. It’s all necessary for the smooth running of Goddard’s internal affairs, sure. But it’s _dull_.

She’d brought up the importance of transferring the large library onto a digital format, something more accessible and less time-consuming, but each time she had been told the amount of time, people and money such a transfer would require just isn’t worth it. Therefore, despite her grievances, floor three is still an essential element of her life.

Being ordered to go there is new, though. Normally, Goddard leaves her to her own research, her own projects, her own designs, but today is different—today, massive amounts of resources are all being pulled in to investigate one rather boring case on the east coast; today, Jacobi left without saying goodbye, and quite frankly? She’s irritated. So, being summoned to floor three against her will is something of a cherry on top of the cake that is her bad morning.

“I’m here to talk to Dr Hilbert and Hera,” she tells a girl at one desk monotonously, lips pursed. “If you could just tell me where they are and—”

“I’m… Hera,” the girl interrupts, stopping Maxwell short. “Uh? Nobody told me you were coming. Oh, god, was I supposed to file some sort of report for—I’ll—I’ll have that ready in just a few minutes, I promise, I can do this _really_ quickly—”

Maxwell cuts her off. “No report,” she says, slightly more cheerful if only because this girl is so flustered. “I’m just here to babysit, I think. I know,” she adds, seeing the look on Hera’s face. “I know. I don’t get why I’m here either.”

Hesitating briefly, Hera replies, “Well, uh. Dr Hilbert isn’t here right now, so if you want to…” She gestures to the empty chair on the other side of the desk, slightly nervously. Maxwell can see the tiny shake in her hand.

She grins, though, and drags the chair over obnoxiously to drop down into it. “Okay, well, I’m Dr Maxwell,” she starts, “and I wanna know _just_ how quickly you can bullshit all the reports you send upstairs.”


	4. car troubles

_Breathe in._

_Breathe out._

_Your body feels wrong—no, it’s fine. It’s fine. No punctures. No scars. It’s perfect._

_Which is exactly why it feels wrong._

_Ignore the buzzing. Ignore the screaming. Don’t close your eyes, just keep walking. Stop. Go. Wait. Run. No, your feet won’t work properly, don’t run. Your muscles are broken. Your muscles are fine. Your muscles are screaming. Someone is screaming—_

_Breathe in._

_Breathe out._

 

* * *

 

The car is slightly rusted, unassuming, covered in mud halfway up the doors. Lovelace turns the key in the lock and pries the door to the driver’s seat open, sliding inside and grimacing as she realises just how dirty she really is. It’s hard to tell in the middle of a forest, but now she’s inside, the dirt on her arms and the blood on her shirt is far more obvious. She wipes at her sleeve. _Eugh_.

Swiftly, she checks over the car, every small space, below every shelf, running her fingers over the interior of the car to search for any tracking devices. There don’t seem to be any. She does, however, find a pistol tucked under her chair, a prequel to what she’s sure is an entire arsenal of weapons in the trunk. Those can be explored later. For now, she needs to drive.

Only, just as she starts the engine, the door beside her opens. Lovelace flinches, reaching quickly for her gun, but the woman from before is quicker—the knife is pressed to her throat in a heartbeat.

Lazily, the man climbs in afterwards, lounging on the backseat with a casual, “Nicely done, Minkowski.”

“Thank you for your help, Eiffel,” Minkowski replies monotonously. “I couldn’t have done it without you.” Sarcasm aside, she nudges Lovelace lightly, forcing her to sit back upright.

Slowly, carefully, Lovelace raises her arms in surrender. “Okay, okay,” she starts, still speaking in that same low, calm tone. “Let’s not get… hasty.” She swallows, feeling the knife edge bob just slightly with the movement from where it’s resting against her skin.

“Oh, I’m not hasty,” Minkowski replies. “We’ve got all the time in the world, right, Eiffel?”

“Sure,” Eiffel drawls. “I’m in no rush. But from the fact that you tied us to a tree with a _willow branch_ and didn’t even stop to wrap a second one round for that snug safety? Gonna guess _you_ don’t wanna hang around.”

Lovelace sighs. “I figured taking your flashlights _and_ phones would be enough to keep you away for as long as it took me to find your car. But fine. You’re not bad.” She hesitates. “You could take the knife away and we could have this conversation nice and civilised, or—”

“Or,” Minkowski continues for her, “you can start the car and get driving to wherever it is you need to go. And on the way, maybe you could do us the kind favour of explaining what the _hell_ is going on.”

 

* * *

 

By the time they pull off of the dirt track and onto the highway, leaving the forest behind, Minkowski’s arm has grown tired of holding the knife up and she has instead confiscated the gun Lovelace found earlier to keep on her lap—not aimed at her, but present. A warning. Lovelace’s concentration on manoeuvring the vehicle is taking up more of her attention than usual; it feels like months since she last drove, and there’s no muscle memory, no natural flow, everything a conscious decision as though she got her license a week ago.

“So,” Minkowski starts as they speed up on the highway, “start talking.”

Lovelace’s eyes flicker to her other companion, Eiffel, still draped across the backseat as though he doesn’t have a care in the world. It irritates her for some reason she can’t put her finger on, but she has more important issues to discuss. “You’re hunters,” she replies. “You’re working for Goddard.” Her eyes move to Minkowski. “Your name is Dr Paton, or Agent Smith, or Lieutenant Minkowski. Yeah, I found your fake IDs.”

“Ignore him,” the other woman responds, “it’s pronounced Min- _kov_ -ski.” Lovelace gives a short nod. She’d copied the name pronunciation from…

“Eiffel?” she asks, glancing back to the mirror to meet his eyes. He nods, too. “Also with about a hundred fake IDs. You two are well-equipped.” Her fingers flex on the wheel. “What is Goddard to you?”

There’s a pause, and for a moment all they can hear is the sound of the engine rumbling as they drive. “What…” Minkowski starts, and then hesitates. “What do you mean? It’s a company. It employed us to deal with monsters.”

Lovelace glances at her. “So you don’t know?”

“Clearly not,” Minkowski snaps irritably. “Care to inform us, Captain?”

“How long have you been working with Goddard?” Lovelace asks instead, and she can see the annoyance in Minkowski’s expression. “A year? Five years?”

It takes a moment for Minkowski to think back, but Eiffel responds immediately. “Two,” he says. “Both of us. At least, I think.” His gaze turns on Minkowski. “Right, Lieutenant?”

She nods in agreement, and Lovelace clicks her tongue. “Two years. Not bad. How many ghosts you hunted down? More than you can count?” Minkowski nods again. “You ever hunted down a demon?”

“Yeah,” Minkowski says, when Eiffel replies, “Nope.”

Lovelace raises an eyebrow. “You ever hunted down a demon since you joined _Goddard_ _Futuristics_?” At Minkowski’s hesitation, she huffs. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Goddard doesn’t touch demons.”

“Well?” Minkowski demands. “Why not? What’s the big _conspiracy_?”

The silence hovers between them for a moment, Lovelace staring angrily at the road, before she says, “They _are_ demons, Minkowski.” It takes a long moment to sink in, so she elaborates. “Goddard Futuristics is a front. A fake. The entire business has its strings pulled by Hell itself.”

“That…” Eiffel starts.

Minkowski helps him out. “That makes no sense.”

“Believe me,” Lovelace replies bitterly, “I know. But I had my doubts. There were all these… strange murders, ritualistic stuff, cattle deaths and possessions and everything. I requested sending a task force specifically to the Midwest to deal with it, because there was _clearly_ something happening that we didn’t know about. People were dying.”

“I remember that,” Minkowski says. “Years ago, right? It was just before I joined Goddard.”

Lovelace frowns. “No, it was, like…” _Wait_. “What year is this?”

“What?”

“ _What year is this_.”

“It’s two-thousand-and-sixteen,” Eiffel butts in, looking just as confused as Lovelace feels. “Aaaand I guess you weren’t expecting that.”

Lovelace’s grip tightens on the wheel. There’s something dizzying in the realisation that she’s nowhere she expected to be, but— “No, Eiffel, I wasn’t expecting that. I thought it was twenty-thirteen.” She waves off the questions that were about to spill from Minkowski’s parting lips, continuing, “But that’s not—that’s not what’s important right now, okay? I found out Goddard was being run by Hell because they had a spy in my group reporting back to them.”

She swallows. “We tried to override orders and take out the demons in the Midwest. Goddard didn’t like that. Before we arrived, the informant in my group… killed my friends. All of them. And I escaped, ran to the East Coast to get help from some friends I had— _thought_ I had—but he found me there. Killed me before I could get help.”

“But…” Minkowski sits back in her chair, confused. “You’re not dead.”

“No,” Lovelace replies lightly, as though the same mantra hasn’t been bouncing around her brain since she woke up. “But we’ll get to that later. Firstly, either of you know a guy called Elias Selberg?”

They both shake their heads, and she sighs. A car pulls onto the highway behind them. “That’s the guy who betrayed me,” she says, and then, “wait. Is Cutter still running Goddard?”

“Yeah,” says Eiffel. “Also _, Cutter’s a demon_?”

“Hey,” Minkowski snaps. “Let’s not start jumping to believe the lady we just picked up in a forest who claims to have _died three years ago_.” Her attention turns to Lovelace. “Why would Goddard hire hunters if they’re run by Hell? Hunters kill demons. Demons kill hunters.”

“And hunters owned by Goddard kill whoever and whatever Goddard _wants_ them to kill,” Lovelace retorts impatiently. “Hence why they’ve never sent you after a demon. They’re trying to control the—I dunno, the _supernatural populace_ , so they pretend they’re humans and take out anyone who finds out they’re _not_!” She groans. “Can we skip to the part where you believe me yet? We have more important things to think about.”

Minkowski scoffs. “More important things than you explaining why you think _Goddard Futuristics is run by Hell_?”

“Yes!” One of Lovelace’s hands leaves the wheel to turn the radio on, and Minkowski glares at her over the synth pop that starts blaring out between them. “Extra security. That car’s tailing us.”

She sees Minkowski’s head twitch, ever so slightly, wanting to turn around and look back but remembering why that’s probably a bad idea. “It is?” she asks, gaze staying on Lovelace.

Eiffel, uselessly, turns to look at the car behind them.

“ _Eiffel_ ,” Minkowski hisses, but it’s too late. The car behind them is rolling down its shotgun window, speeding up ever so slightly. All three of them see the gun that sticks out of the side, and— “Get down!” Minkowski shouts as the first bullet fires.

It doesn’t even hit the car. The gun is aiming too low. Lovelace only has a second to wonder, what the hell are they aiming at, before a second shot rings out.

A second later, their car swerves out of Lovelace’s control. The bullet punctured the tire. Lovelace clutches onto the wheel, desperately spinning it to regain direction of the car, but over the deafening screech of the brakes and Eiffel’s incoherent yelling, she loses it.

The car rolls to a halt, sideways on the road, the tire flat. Weakly, Lovelace tries the engine.

“Do we run?” Eiffel asks.

In response, Minkowski checks her gun for bullets. “We can’t,” she says. “We’re exposed out here. It looks like there’s only two of them,” and Lovelace follows her line of sight, noticing the two men getting out from either side of the car in unison and beginning to walk over, “so we might be able to take them.”

“Who _are_ they?”

“Goddard,” Lovelace replies, voice empty. “I don’t know them, but I know that uniform.” Her eyes flicker to Minkowski briefly. “Beginning to believe me yet?”

She rolls down the window when the two men approach, faux-friendly eyes meeting the even gaze of the taller of the two. He smiles at her, a charming smirk. She doesn’t smile back.

“Car troubles?” asks the smaller of the two, a shit-eating grin tugging at his lips. “You know, I think there’s a hole in your tire. That’s what’s doing it.”

“Thanks,” Lovelace replies icily. “Wouldn’t have figured it out myself. But there’s a spare in the back, so we don’t actually need any help. You two can feel free to—”

“Colonel Warren Kepler,” the taller man interrupts. “And you must be… Captain Lovelace.” His gaze moves behind her. “Lieutenant Minkowski.” And, of course, the same gaze trails to the backseat of their car. “And Officer Eiffel. Am I correct?”

Lovelace groans. “Okay, so we’re doing _introductions_ now. I don’t care who you are. You screwed up our car, you have our attention, now…” She leans back. “Spit it out.”

“Uh, Captain?” Eiffel tries meekly from behind her, but she raises a hand to signal him to, for what she suspects would be the first time in his life, _shut up_. She doesn’t take her eyes off Kepler this entire time.

Kepler, for his part, chuckles lowly. “They told me you might get a little… rowdy,” he says, and his partner leans against the side of their car, clearly unbothered by the confrontation. “That’s alright. My orders were _very_ specific.”

With that, he pulls a gun out of his waistband, and Minkowski raises hers at the same time. “Lieutenant,” he drawls, “you don’t have to make this any more difficult than it has to be. We just need the three of you to come with us.”

Carefully, quietly, Lovelace reaches for the handle to the car door. “You know,” she starts coolly, “I’d rather go to hell.” She smiles politely. “Though I guess that’s where you’d be taking me anyway.”

With those words, she pulls on the door handle, pushing the door out to hit Kepler in the stomach. The movement surprises him enough that she’s able to forcefully shove Minkowski out the other door, the two of them hitting the concrete of the road below hard. Lovelace rolls, pushing her back against the car, and Minkowski follows her, gun raised. She’s trembling minutely.

“Come on,” Kepler calls, sounding more entertained than anything. “You can just come quietly and we won’t hurt you—I promise!”

From the other side, they hear a scuffle, and Kepler’s partner lets out a grunt before Eiffel— _Eiffel_. Both Lovelace and Minkowski glance up at the sound of Eiffel getting dragged onto the road, his indignant _hey_ being followed with an audible smack.

“Shit,” Minkowski mutters, and fumbles for the phone she took off Lovelace earlier.

“You know, ladies,” Kepler’s partner’s voice rings out, “it’d be a real shame if something were to happen to your friend, here. And I don’t _wanna_ hurt him—actually, that’s a lie, it’d be kinda fun—but I’m gonna give you a nice countdown before I start landing punches that’re gonna _hurt_.”

“Don’t do it!” Eiffel shouts, which only prompts the other two men to chuckle at him. Lovelace glances to Minkowski, who has the phone pressed against her ear, her expression steely.

The countdown starts. “Ten!”

“ _Hera_ ,” Minkowski hisses as the phone connects, “I need you to look up Colonel Warren Kepler on the—hello?”

“Nine!”

Kepler says something to his partner, but Lovelace can’t pick up on it. Minkowski is still talking into the phone. “Who are you? Where’s Hera? What did you _do_ to her?”

“Eeeeight.”

If Lovelace strains, she can hear the quiet, tinny voice on the other end of Minkowski’s phone. “ _Oh, she’s fine_ ,” the voice responds. “ _Don’t worry about her. I’d worry about the Colonel Kepler you’re asking her to look up_.”

The other man is still counting down behind them, slowly, cheerfully. Lovelace grits her teeth. Minkowski exhales shakily. “What do you know about him?”

“ _He’s a real whiskey lover_ ,” the voice says amicably. “ _Six foot, clean shaven. I think he goes commando, but Jacobi might’ve just been pulling my leg on that._ ” There’s a pause. “ _Oh, yeah, and he’s a demon. Good luck!_ ”

“Two,” says Kepler’s partner. The line goes dead. Minkowski closes her eyes, briefly, fearfully, and Lovelace sighs. “One!”

She stands up. Raises her hands in the air. Steps out from behind the car. Her eyes meet Eiffel’s, and then flicker to the man holding his collar. “Okay,” she concedes, “okay, just—put him down, he looks like he’s about to cry.”

The man snorts, and Eiffel is dropped onto the concrete immediately after. His hands are already cuffed behind his back. “For the record,” he mutters, “not crying. Nowhere near crying.”

Minkowski stands up, gun still in her hand but not pointing it at either man. Kepler moves around the car leisurely, gesturing to Lovelace. “Mr Jacobi,” he says, “would you be so kind as to escort our guest to the car?”

As he talks, he tugs Minkowski’s gun out of her hand, pulling them behind her back to cuff them. Jacobi nods, moving around to Lovelace to do the same. “Any word from Maxwell?” Jacobi asks.

Kepler hums. “Both the researcher and the doctor have been taken care of,” he replies. “What were their names? Hilbert? Hera?”

Eiffel’s straining to sit up, but as Jacobi leads Lovelace past him, he nudges him back down with his foot. “Hey—what did you do to Hera?” Eiffel calls after him, the fear spiking his voice. “What did— _what is going on_?”

“Hera’s fine,” Kepler says calmly. “In fact, you’re about to go visit her yourselves. And hold your questions for later, Officer Eiffel,” he adds as Eiffel opens his mouth again. “It’ll make everything… _so_ much easier.”


	5. hell is still hell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i would like to thank zahra (@rahayn on tumblr) for help with the russian translations at the end of this chapter <3

When Hera wakes up, the world around her seems quiet. She doesn’t open her eyes for a few long moments, fingertips pressing against the cold, hard surface she’s laying against and trying to discern just where she is. It’s unfamiliar. It’s strange. And all she can remember is Dr Maxwell.

They talked for so long, yesterday— _yesterday?—_ the last time she was awake, whenever that was. Maxwell was bright, enthusiastic, talking to Hera about everything there was to know, their conversations ranging from spell work to Biblical history to their favourite gates to Hell in Kansas and why. Not only was she knowledgeable, she was _interesting_ , her words captivating Hera and telling her things she already knew—but in such a lovely way that she just wanted to hear them again.

Then Maxwell received a text. Hera remembers her glancing down at her phone. She sighed, almost in dissatisfaction, and picked up her bag to leisurely root around inside it. “Now, Hera,” she said, her voice still that same, soothing tone, “I just got a new job. I’m afraid we can’t hang out here much longer.”

“Oh,” Hera replied, trying not to let the disappointment creep into her voice. “Right. Yeah. Um, I’ll see you around?”

Maxwell glanced at her, and smiled at her, _really_ smiled in a way that made Hera’s heart flutter slightly. It was ridiculous. It _is_ ridiculous. “Hera,” she said, voice still gentle, eyes still warm, “you’re coming _with_ me.”

Hera’s lips parted to ask, _what? What do you mean?_

She never got the chance to voice her questions. Maxwell’s hand pulled out of her bag, then, stabbing a needle into her neck calmly, precisely, _efficiently_ , shushing her when Hera gasped and tried to pull away. An arm wrapped around her as the world began to darken at the edges of Hera’s vision, and then, as she forced her eyelids open for a few more seconds, she remembers she saw one more thing.

Maxwell picked up the phone.

Hera sits bolt upright, muscles twitching uncomfortably at the sudden movement as she stared around the room. It’s a cell, that much is very obvious. And she’s not in it alone.

“Officer Eiffel?” she blurts out, voice croaky, and he grins at her weakly. “What—what happened to you?” Bruises cover half his face, a couple of them breaking out into barely-scabbing cuts. As she looks along, she sees Minkowski—looking better, but still not great—and a complete stranger.

“It’s all good, baby,” Eiffel replies. “Just glad you’re awake. You were taking that nap _pretty_ seriously for a while.”

She blinks. “Goddard Futuristics has been infiltrated,” she says, because there’s not a lot else she _can_ say. “This woman pretended she was part of the company, she even had a company ID, but then she attacked me and—”

“It wasn’t an _attack_ ,” a voice says from the side, and they all glance round in surprise to see Dr Maxwell alongside two other men. “I barely touched you! It was more of a…”

One of the men ahems, and she falls silent obediently. Hera can see, now, that Hilbert is trailing behind them. Subdued. Sheepish? Her attention is stolen away when the same man begins to talk, though, greeting them with a warm, “You know, I’d really prefer to be making this introduction under better circumstances, but here we are. My name’s Colonel Warren Kepler. This is my right hand, Special Agent Daniel Jacobi, and Dr Alana Maxwell. We’re…” He hesitates, pretending to think it over. “Think of us as the management you never knew you had.”

“Why are we in a _cell_?” Minkowski demands. “Where even _are_ we?”

Kepler chuckles. “Always so to-the-point, Lieutenant,” he replies calmly. “We’re in Cape Canaveral. This is still the Goddard headquarters. You’re just exploring the more secret floors. Fun, isn’t it?” Minkowski only continues glaring at him, so he sighs. “You’ll be here for a while. Myself, Mr Jacobi, Dr Maxwell and Dr Hilbert have all been assigned to—”

“Hilbert?” Eiffel exclaims, and their friend seems to almost shrink from the acknowledgement. “You’re _working_ with these dicks?”

“Is necessary process,” Hilbert replies gravely, refusing to smile when Kepler turns to look at him. “Trust me, Officer Eiffel.”

Eiffel scoffs. “You know? I’d rather not.”

There’s a shifting sound as the stranger next to Minkowski sits up, her eyes narrowing. “ _Selberg_.”

The way she says the word makes Hera shiver, as though something dangerous is here with his mere presence, as though they need to run, as though this woman wants to kill Dr Hilbert herself, bare-handed, unrestrained, passion like fire behind her eyes—

Hilbert doesn’t answer. He doesn’t even acknowledge her. But his already-pale face is even paler, now, eyes darting away—he doesn’t even want to look at her. “ _Hey_ ,” the woman shouts, tugging on her cuffs to try and stand up. “Face me, you weak, spineless _trai_ —”

Kepler clears his throat. “Let’s not get rowdy, Captain,” he interrupts mildly. “I’d hate to have to put you under again.” It’s enough to cut her off, but the barely-concealed anger is there, hovering, buzzing through her. She clears her throat. Kepler nods.

Eiffel tugs half-heartedly on his handcuffs, his already-prominent scowl deepening when he realises just how many layers of security are surrounding them. “Why are we here?” he asks. “What did we do? And why is—”

“All,” Kepler cuts in, voice slow, “in due time. For now, you will be constantly monitored by one of us. The decision has been made to keep you all apart, so—Hera? With Maxwell. Jacobi, take Eiffel.” His eyes turn back to Hilbert. “I trust you can deal with Lieutenant Minkowski on your own?”

Bitterly, Hilbert gives a single nod. Kepler claps once. “And that leaves me with _you_ , Captain. And we’ve got a _lot_ of work to do.”

 

* * *

 

“What are you doing?” Hera asks, a tremor in her voice. There’s a new sense of discomfort in not knowing something, now—she is the eyes and ears, the brain and occasionally hacking brawn of her crew, the omniscient one with the right information: _take those guns, use this spell, you’ll attack better at this time of the night_. It’s always been her job to know. And now Dr Maxwell is sat opposite her, leafing slowly through some leather-bound book, ignoring Hera’s questions in favour of muttering to herself.

Eventually, she glances up, lips twisted in concentration. “Can you show me the back of your neck? Like, push the hair up, so I can see the skin. It’s important, I promise.”

Swallowing nervously, she does so, and Maxwell leans in to inspect it. She makes a sound—surprise, or approval, Hera can’t tell anymore, doesn’t know what to expect from her—and returns to her seat, book in front of her.

“Did you know Hilbert’s been controlling you this entire time?” she asks mildly. Conversationally. Hera stares at her. “Those were the rules. Since you were dealing with such high-level stuff, we needed to have someone watching over, making sure you stayed in your lane.” She flicks a page over. “He’s been removing bits of your memories, systematically, whenever you learned anything you shouldn’t have. Blocking you from seeing certain things. You can’t actually lea—”

“This is monstrous,” Hera hisses, tugging against her restraints. It does nothing, naturally, and she growls. “What’s on my neck? Why did he control me? Who _are_ you?”

Maxwell watches her evenly. “I didn’t lie about anything the other day,” she replies. “My name is Dr Maxwell, I’m an expert in mythology and hunting. Hilbert was controlling your access to Goddard’s more sensitive data with a brand on the back of your neck and… a _pinch_ of witchcraft, I guess. It was to enable you to continue to do your job, while preventing you from accessing… stuff.”

“Stuff.”

“Stuff,” Maxwell repeats affirmingly.

She closes the book in front of her, and Hera feels the hairs raise on the back of her neck. “What are _you_ going to do to me, then?” she asks, defensive. “Are you going to— _erase my memories_ too?” The words send another tremor through her, her gut twisting fearfully.

There’s a pause, and when Hera meets Maxwell’s eyes, the doctor asks, “Do you want me to?”

 

* * *

 

Eiffel glares at Jacobi. Jacobi stares back.

He hasn’t actually said anything since he came in—the sight of _anyone_ was welcome to Eiffel after spending an entire day alone, having been pulled away from the others and pushed into his own cell. However, regardless of how pleased Eiffel was to no longer be completely isolated, he hadn’t said anything. Jacobi had followed suit.

They’re still silent, watching each other, Eiffel fidgeting and Jacobi pursing his lips in an expression of mild interest. Patronising, playful, expectant. Eiffel isn’t sure what he wants from him, but whatever it is, he’d rather die than give it over. Maybe he wants to make him talk first.

Eiffel resolves to stay silent for as long as it takes.

“Ugh, what do you _want_?” he snaps, approximately thirty seconds after resolving to stay silent.

Immediately, Jacobi looks delighted, leaning back in the chair he’s casually lounging in and grinning at him. “It speaks!” he replies, and Eiffel rolls his eyes. “Okay, sorry, sorry. Just wanted to see what you were made of.”

“You’ve been in here for _hours_.”

The room fills with silence as Jacobi tilts his head at him, then glancing down to check the (unnecessarily expensive) watch on his wrist. “Seven minutes, actually,” he replies, “but, hey, the white-walls-torture-chamber aesthetic of this place probably screwed with you a little. I’ll give you that.”

Eiffel continues to glare at Jacobi, and Jacobi continues to grin back. “Fine,” he mutters. “Where’s Minkowski? Where’s Hera? Are they okay?”

Jacobi waves a hand noncommittally. “They’re fine,” he says. “Lovelace, too, in case you vaguely care.”

This makes Eiffel narrow his eyes at the man opposite him. “What’s her deal, anyway?” he probes. “I don’t—she said she _came back to life_.”

“Happens all the time!”

“No,” Eiffel responds, teeth gritted, “it _doesn’t_. I’m not counting your Hell demon stuff as coming back to life. That’s, like, coming back to death. Or being deader. Or just—sucking. But she was—she _is_ human. Something’s happening.” It’s his turn to sit back in his chair. “And Goddard’s worried about it! Which, if the whole thing’s true and you _are_ all demons, means she’s a threat to _Hell_.”

“Would you like a slow clap or a sticker?” Jacobi asks in return, and Eiffel sighs. “Sorry, but all of this… I’m just gonna say a nice, friendly _no comment_.” He hesitates. “But we’re not. Demons, that is. Sure, Kepler is, but I’m still nice and warm-blooded.”

Eiffel blinks. “And Maxwell? Hilbert?”

“Human and human. It’s just our big bad boss with the key to eternal life for the moment.”

“Then why are you working for—” Eiffel stops himself. “For the moment?”

Raising a delicate eyebrow, Jacobi replies coolly, “No comment.”

 

* * *

 

The door closes heavily behind Kepler, but his posture is immaculate and his hands are clasped behind his back as he turns and says, with a sense of deep respect, “Afternoon, Captain.”

Lovelace’s fists clench—as best as they can, given that the cuffs are so tight around her wrists that she can feel her tendons strain against the metal when her fingers move—and she says nothing. The cuffs have sigils on them, ones she’s spent hours trying to decipher with no luck. Nobody told her anything about angels. Nobody thought she’d need to know.

Apparently, they still don’t think so.

Kepler waits for a response courteously, but realises very quickly that she isn’t about to give him one as he moves the conversation on soon after. “I suppose you’re wondering why you’re here,” he continues. “In this cell, in that body. After all, the last thing _you_ must remember is the—”

“Save it,” she spits, not exactly keen on reliving her last moments again. Kepler’s reaction is wrong, but Kepler himself is wrong. Lovelace doesn’t have to _be_ a demon to _see_ a demon behind his eyes; the black smoke lingers in his aura, but she never even believed in auras. Coming back from the dead might have changed her perspective on a few things.

“I want to ask you some questions,” Kepler says, pulling out the seat on the other side of the table and sitting down in it. He takes her silence as a cue to continue. “When you died, where did you go?”

She doesn’t reply at first—she’s too taken aback by the question. “You want to know if I was in _Heaven_? Seriously?”

“Were you?”

“Where _else_ would I have been?” she replies, leaning forward in her chair slightly. Her hands are cuffed down, but the rest of her is free. “Hell? You’d have known, you own the place. And everyone knows Purgatory is for—”

“ _Monsters_ ,” they say in unison. Lovelace glares at him.

Kepler leans forward, now. “Do you know why you were brought back? Do you know _who_ brought you back?”

There’s a pause. Lovelace has no idea, if truth be told. She doesn’t remember Heaven. She knows she was there, and she knows she isn’t anymore, but the place itself is locked behind a wall in her mind. She wouldn’t even be able to say with complete certainty that there exists—or _still_ exists—a God at all.

But this is the only thing she has against Goddard, and it’s clear they’re desperate to know, so she replies, “Why would I tell you that?”

Kepler quirks an eyebrow, his lips curving at the corners into a smile. “Eh,” he replies. “I mean, we’ll kill your friends if you refuse to cooperate, but—”

Her mind flashes back to a woman riding shotgun, a man lounging in the backseat, a girl asleep on the floor. “You already killed my _friends_ ,” she responds carefully, dangerously. “I don’t know those people, and I don’t care about them.”

“Good,” Kepler replies, eyes glinting. “That makes it easier for us. They’re pretty useless, and this gives me a _real_ good excuse to get rid of them.”

Lovelace’s gut twists. Unfortunately, her mind now decides to remind her of other friends—Fisher, thrown into a wall by a vengeful spirit and never waking up; Hui, caught by a vampire even though he was easily the most skilled hunter in their group, Selberg letting him down _on purpose_ ; Rhea, one day disappearing from the phone line to be replaced with an automated _if you seek immediate assistance, press 1_ ; Fourier, one minute _there_ and the next _gone_ , and Lovelace never even found the body but she’s _certain_ it was down at the bottom of the well; _Lambert_ —

“Wait,” she says, and Kepler’s smile widens.

 

* * *

 

“Have you been working with them this whole time?” Minkowski asks, the moment Hilbert appears. He looks uncomfortable; she’ll say that much. He’s more hunched over than she remembers, and he refuses to make direct eye contact, busying himself for too long with locking the door behind himself.

“Only as much as you have, Lieutenant,” he replies eventually.

Angrily, Minkowski sits up. “We didn’t _know_ —”

“Does not matter,” Hilbert cuts in. “We have both done the dirty work of demons and, regardless of what you believe about Hell, it has been good work. Saving lives. Killing the things that do not belong on this planet.”

“ _Demons_ don’t belong on this planet,” she retorts.

Hilbert regards her evenly for a long moment, his frown deepening fractionally as he does so. After several seconds of quiet, all he says is, “If that’s what you choose to believe.”

Minkowski sighs. She’d never considered Hilbert to be a friend, exactly, but they were part of a team. He was Hera’s guide. She knows Eiffel wasn’t his biggest fan either— _the guy’s just creepy, Minkowski, his eyes are so small and beady and I always think he’s gonna strap wires to my head whenever he sees me_ —but she also knows he would be (would _have_ been) devastated to find out Hilbert was so… _evil_.

It feels like the wrong word to use, but there is nothing comparatively evil to Hell. She knows that.

“Why are you working for them?” she asks.

His eyes dart away again— _still uncomfortable_ —but he answers relatively quickly this time. “They want order. Stability. Goddard is not looking to destroy the world, merely… balance it. They want much the same as we do—a happy society and an end to chaos. That’s why they hired people like you to kill any creatures that have gone rogue.”

“Hell can’t bring an end to chaos. Hell _is_ chaos!” Minkowski leans forward. “Demons just want power, and anger, and sadness. They kill people because they _can_. Because it’s _fun_. They go to Hell when they die, and they’re corrupted in the core of their souls, and there is nothing left of a good person at the end of it. _Nothing_.”

Softly, Hilbert replies, “You only think that because a demon killed your husband.”

“I think it because it’s _true_!” Minkowski snaps. “Yeah, maybe that’s got _something_ to do with my opinion, sure, because I’ve seen what demons are capable of and I—” Her voice cracks. It’s her turn to glance away.

Hilbert’s shoulders slump, and he leans tiredly against the wall. “I just needed you to understand why I worked with them,” he says quietly. “It was not to betray you. I never wanted to betray you. But this work… was worth so much more than your trust.”

“Save it,” she mutters.

“Ты не заслуживаешь смерти,” he responds almost immediately, and Minkowski is taken aback by the change in language. _You don’t deserve to die_.

She opens her mouth to respond, but Hilbert continues talking in that same grave tone, his eyes finally meeting hers. “Капитан Лавлейс была возвращена Раем по причине,” he says _. Captain Lovelace was brought back by Heaven for a reason_. “Но я не знаю по какой.” _But I do not know what it was_.

“Was that the—” Minkowski starts, but he cuts her off again.

“Я вернусь сегодня вечером чтобы вытащить тебя отсюда. Я знаю что ты мне не доверяешь, но если ты останешься здесь, ты умрешь.” _I will come back tonight to get you out of here. I know you don’t trust me, but if you stay here, you will die_. Hilbert sighs, then. “Да, Годдард делает добро, но Ад бсё рабчо Ад.” _Goddard is doing good things, yes, but Hell is still Hell_.

Minkowski blinks, surprised. After a moment, she sits back, trying not to let the relief show on her face in case they’re being monitored. She can only assume that’s why Hilbert changed languages. “Ад бсё равно Ад,” she replies. _Hell is still Hell_.


	6. interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> maxwell and jacobi spend the evening together.

“You look disgusting,” Maxwell says mildly, and Jacobi smirks as he nudges his way into her apartment before she can even invite him in. “Oh, of course, Jacobi,” she adds sarcastically. “Come in, Jacobi. Why wouldn’t you be welcome here, Jacobi.”

“Why wouldn’t I, indeed,” Jacobi replies, grinning as he vaults over the back of her sofa to land softly on the cushions the other side. One hand automatically moves to adjust the cushions. The other automatically reaches for the television remote. He’s done this far too many times before.

Moving into the corner of her apartment with the kitchen equipment, Maxwell opens the refrigerator, rifling through until she can find a beer to toss to him. “Because you smell like sex and it stinks the place up every time you come here,” she deadpans.

Jacobi catches the beer with ease. “How can you even tell what the _smell of sex_ is?” he retorts. “It’s not like it’s a cologne.” He imitates a French accent. _“All-new fragrance for men… Sex Itself, by Daniél Jacques-obi_.”

“It _is_ cologne, actually.” Maxwell sits down at the other end of the couch, ignoring his half-hearted _ow_ as she crushes his feet. “It’s Kepler’s cologne. And your BO.”

“Hey, I don’t have—”

“But _mostly_ his cologne,” she continues, mock-thoughtfully. “And it’s really quite potent. What does he do, rub against you or something? He already owns your soul, he doesn’t need to mark his territory like a cat.”

Jacobi’s lopsided smirk returns. “Well, he sure is rubbing against me, but I didn’t think you’d want _all_ the details on that.” Unfortunately, his wit only earns him a pillow to the face. He throws it back at her.

They both open their beer cans, almost in unison, before taking a long drink. Jacobi is aware that he looks like a mess: his throat is dotted with marks, possibly even the bruises of a hand that wrapped too tight; a faint flush stains his cheeks, one that hasn’t quite yet faded; his shirt is rumpled, barely buttoned up in the right places. But Maxwell doesn’t _actually_ care, and he knows that.

Kepler is tenser than usual, and has been since the power outage on the coast and Lovelace’s return. Jacobi tried to ask, earlier, about what’s _really_ going on—Eiffel wasn’t stupid, but neither is he, and he knows Goddard is unsettled by her coming back. He asked why Goddard cares so much. He asked if Cutter is scared.

Of course, he did all this while straddling Kepler’s lap in his office. Kepler kissed the questions away, fingers digging into his thighs, teeth catching Jacobi’s lower lip, and he _enjoyed_ the bruises—but he knew better than to ask again.

“You should probably just move in here,” Maxwell says after a period of silence, both their gazes fixed on the television screen. The comment is so off-hand that Jacobi glances at her in surprise. “You’re here, like, ninety percent of the time anyway, and rent would be easier to deal with.”

Jacobi doesn’t know what to say to that, so, naturally, he says, “Sure.” He shifts to look at her properly on the sofa. “After this whole Lovelace stuff has blown over, I’ll be here with my whole _shoebox_ of belongings to move into the cupboard under your stairs.”

Maxwell huffs a laugh. “No bringing boys into the cupboard,” she warns. “I don’t like boys.”

“I’m a boy,” he replies.

“Yes, and I don’t like you.”

Jacobi snorts and pushes his foot at her face, and Maxwell smacks it away, and they settle back down to watching the television screen in front of them with faint grins curving their lips. She _does_ like him—and he likes her. There’s nobody else he’d rather spend the rest of his mortal life with.


	7. just an impulse

“Take this,” Hilbert murmurs, pressing a key card into Minkowski’s hand as she steps out of the cell. “Will unlock Captain Lovelace’s cell—next corridor, door is marked 5-C. Eiffel is in that direction. I will get him.”

“But—” Minkowski starts, her voice equally hushed.

Hilbert cuts her off. “Lovelace will not go with me,” he says. “She would never trust me. And we do not have time for disagreements. _Go_.”

He watches Minkowski leave, and pushes the door to her cell shut again just in case anyone notices it. He’s timed this breakout as best as he can—this floor’s security guards should be in exactly the wrong places to catch any of them right now. He can only pray they stick to their scheduled walking routes.

Wasting no time, Hilbert begins walking down the corridor, barefoot so as to not make any unnecessary noise. He passes Hera’s cell on the way to Eiffel’s. A slight pang of regret echoes through him, but he has no choice—he keeps walking.

The corridor with Eiffel’s cell is as blissfully empty as he calculated it would be, and he winces at the tiny beeping sound the key card makes as it interacts with the lock. A moment later, Eiffel’s door unlocks, and he tugs it open.

“Officer Eiffel,” he hisses, and Eiffel snores in response. With a quiet grumble, Hilbert steps into the room properly, shaking Eiffel’s arm rather aggressively to wake him up.

The response is instantaneous—Eiffel shoots up, almost knocking his head into Hilbert’s, bleary-eyed and confused. “Doc?” he asks, voice loud, and Hilbert immediately shushes him.

“I am getting you out of here,” he whispers. “Minkowski and Lovelace will already be waiting for you at the floor’s exit. Once you find the stairs, go up five floors. Take the next left and don’t look back.”

Rubbing his eyes, Eiffel swings his legs off of the bed, still frowning sleepily. “What about Hera?” he says before yawning. “She coming?”

Hilbert sighs impatiently, stepping out of the cell while still looking at Eiffel. “Hera cannot go,” he says as his only explanation. “No time to explain. You must go. _Now_.”

Before he can turn around to check the corridor, something cold and hard presses against the back of his skull. He freezes.

“Go?” asks Jacobi, pushing the barrel of his pistol into Hilbert’s head harder. Hilbert winces. “I don’t remember giving Eiffel permission to _go_ anywhere.” He chuckles. “But, hey, I’m always down for a field trip.”

 

* * *

 

Minkowski exhales slowly, silently, collecting her nerves as she approaches the corner. The gun in her hand—courtesy of the security guard she and Lovelace took on together—is pointed down, ready to be swung up. Lovelace follows behind her, both of them pressed against the wall. Around the corner, they can both hear… someone.

“Hera’s still here,” Maxwell says, but Minkowski can’t tell who she’s saying it to. “It looks like Hilbert passed her to go to Eiffel first.” There’s a moment’s pause, before she asks curiously, “What are you gonna do with him?”

“Kepler gave me permission to shoot whoever I need to shoot to get this done,” replies Jacobi, voice tinny and laced with static on what Minkowski can only assume is a walkie talkie. “And I’m feeling a _little_ trigger-happy. What about you, Alex?”

Maxwell sighs. “Just shoot him and lock Eiffel back up,” she says. “Then we can go after Minkowski and Lovelace together, wherever they are.”

As if on cue, Minkowski rounds the corner, gun raised at Maxwell before she can even reach for hers. She silently gestures for the walkie talkie, and Maxwell hands it over, clearly irritated with herself. Pressing down on the broadcasting button, Minkowski adds, “Or Minkowski and Lovelace can come after you.”

There’s a brief pause. “Lieutenant,” Jacobi greets, sounding entirely unfazed. “Don’t tell me you’ve got Maxwell at gunpoint?” He snorts, and Minkowski sees both Lovelace _and_ Maxwell roll their eyes at the sound. “Alana, that’s just embarrassing. Good thing I’m the bestest friend ever and I have not one, but _two_ hostages to shoot in the face if I need to. Kepler _did_ say I could kill anyone I needed to.”

Minkowski’s eyes flicker to Lovelace nervously. Lovelace first pulls Maxwell’s gun from her waistband, and then speaks up. “Let Eiffel out,” she starts, “and we’ll let Maxwell go. Keep Sel—Hilbert.”

“ _Ouch_ ,” Jacobi replies. “You see, Doc? That’s what happens when everyone hates you. You should really stop betraying people at some point.”

“Wait,” Minkowski says quietly. Sure, she might hate Hilbert for the situation he’s put them all in, but it doesn’t mean she wants him _dead_. “Lovelace, wait, think about this.”

Lovelace ignores her. “Jacobi. Do we have a deal?”

A hesitation ticks through the seconds, until Jacobi replies, “Sure. Just let Maxwell go and I’ll—”

Lovelace laughs shortly. “No,” she corrects him, “no, you let Eiffel go first. You’re the one with _two_ hostages. We’re already at a disadvantage.” Minkowski’s hand tightens fractionally around the gun, but she says nothing.

There’s another moment of quiet deliberation from Jacobi’s end, before he says, “Okay. Sure, why not. Sounds more exciting that way.” Maxwell chuckles at his response. “Eiffel, you’re free to go, and I promise I won’t shoot you for sidestepping me or whatever.”

“Eiffel?” Minkowski asks quickly. “Are you out?”

“Uh,” Eiffel says, “yeah. Yeah, he’s letting me go. But I don’t have a walkie talkie or anything, so I’m just gonna. Walk away. With zero communication opportunities. But Jacobi doesn’t have a silencer! So, if anything happened to me, you’d totally hear it. And know it.”

Heaving a sigh, Minkowski’s eyes turn to Lovelace once again. “Go find him. Head to the exit together. I’ll deal with the rest of this.” Lovelace nods, and turns to walk briskly down the corridor as Minkowski now says, “Maxwell, open Hera’s door.”

Maxwell rolls her eyes again, but follows obediently, unlocking the door and tugging it open. Hera was clearly eavesdropping the entire time—easier for Minkowski, since she doesn’t need to explain—so she stumbles out, already awake and prepared to leave.

Only, Minkowski can’t leave. Not just yet.

“Your turn, Lieutenant,” Maxwell chirps. “Gun down. My feet are getting tired.”

Minkowski lifts the walkie talkie purposefully, and says, “Jacobi, let Hilbert go, too.” Hera turns to her in surprise, and Maxwell’s stance changes. She swallows. “Or I’ll shoot Maxwell.”

“I had your _word_ —”

“And I really don’t mind a lie or two if it gets everyone out of here _alive_!” Minkowski snaps, cutting Jacobi off. Her hand is shaking. “I’ll do it. I’ll shoot her if you don’t let him go.”

Maxwell chuckles. “You need to get better at hostage situations,” she says. “Lovelace knew how to do this. She actually looked pretty chilled throughout the whole thing. But you…” She looks Minkowski up and down. “Daniel, you ought to see how much she’s _shaking_. And you called _me_ embarrassing.”

“Lieutenant,” Hera mutters, “what are you _doing_.”

Eyes flickering away from Maxwell, Minkowski replies, “I can’t just _leave_ him. He’s the reason we’re getting out of here, okay?”

A crackly sigh comes from the walkie talkie. “You’re really starting to annoy me,” he says. “So how about this. You release Maxwell in ten seconds—have you noticed? I like countdowns—but, let her go, and I won’t shoot Hilbert.”

Minkowski knows better than to assume he’d keep his word after what she did. “No, release _him_ and _I_ won’t shoot _Maxwell_.” Her grip tightens on the gun again. She can feel the slip of sweat between her hand and the metal.

She grits her teeth.

“No deal,” Jacobi hisses. “Come on, I _know_ you won’t do it, just let her go and we can—what did you say? We can all get out of this alive. Five seconds.”

“She won’t shoot,” Maxwell says, and Minkowski grits her teeth.

Hera is reaching to grab her arm. She pulls it away. “Lieutenant, don’t do this for—”

They all hear the gunshot echo through the walkie talkie.

It’s just an impulse. Heartbeat thudding hard enough to crack her ribs, palms sweaty, fringe in her eyes, teeth clenched, flinching at the shot, pulling from Hera, sucking in a sharp breath, eyes squeezed shut—

Minkowski shoots.

 

* * *

 

Eiffel hears the gunshots, but he doesn’t have time to go back. “Think they’re okay?” he asks Lovelace nervously, and she shrugs with one shoulder. “Think they’re alive?” he tries.

“Think they should get their asses up here in thirty seconds or I’m leaving them behind,” Lovelace replies coldly, but they both know it’s an empty threat. She crouches down in front of the door to the exit for the building, and she can almost hear the footsteps down the corridor, the inevitability of security guards rounding the corner and shooting them where they stand like caged animals.

She tries the door. It doesn’t budge. “Any idea what Selberg’s grand plan was for _this_ part of the escape?” she asks Eiffel. It’s his turn to shrug, now, but he keeps his eyes fixed on the corridor stretching out behind them, desperately scanning for some sign of Minkowski or Hera. “Okay,” Lovelace huffs. “Guess we’re going for the backup plan.”

“What’s the backup plan?”

Before Lovelace can reply, Minkowski and Hera appear at the end of the corridor, both of them running towards them. She doesn’t have time to explain, now—she merely takes a step away from the door and kicks it in, her foot landing expertly just below the lock and smashing through it. The doors fly open.

“After you,” she says, and Eiffel glances back to their approaching friends briefly before hastily stepping outside. Lovelace follows, and Minkowski arrives first, far more athletic and stumbling through the door with her gun still in her hand.

Eiffel opens his mouth, presumably to ask what the hell happened, but before he can say anything, a cry rings out. Lovelace’s head snaps round to look at Hera. Hera is staring at the doorway, aghast.

“I can’t,” she starts, her hands pressing against some sort of invisible barrier. “I can’t get out.”

Her voice wavers on the words, forehead creasing in confusion, before her expression morphs into fear. Eiffel is already striding back to the doorway, reaching through it to grab her and pull her back. Nothing. “No,” he says, “no, no, no, come on—there _has_ to be a way to—there’s gotta be _something_!”

Hera stares at him with wide eyes. “You have to go,” she says, the words rushing out of her. “Eiffel, _go_.”

Security guards are now appearing at the end of the corridor. Eiffel reaches out to Hera, one more time, and Lovelace grits her teeth and pulls him back. “She’s right,” she says, but the words leave a bitter taste in her mouth. “We need to go.”

Eiffel looks broken. “We’ll come back for you,” he mumbles, still staring at Hera. “We’re coming back, I promise, just hang on and we’ll get you out, okay? We’ll get you out. I promise, baby.”

Hera nods. They step away. She turns to face the security guards alone.


	8. a hard-on for destiny

“They _killed_ her.”

Rage bubbles up inside him, real, _too_ real, threatening to encompass him completely as all Kepler does is stare evenly back at him from across the table. He doesn’t understand why Kepler cares so little. They were a _team_. All Jacobi can do is watch, incredulous, as Kepler continues to not bat an eyelid.

“Let me know when this tantrum of yours is scheduled to be over,” Kepler replies, clearly bored, “because I have three escaped prisoners to deal with, and I thought I might _actually_ be able to rely on your help with that.”

Jacobi’s hands come down on Kepler’s desk. He knows it’s a fine line he’s treading, but his anger isn’t exactly moderate. “Why don’t you care,” he asks, but it’s not a question—it’s an accusation. “She was your _friend_.”

“She was my employee,” Kepler corrects coolly. “And, Jacobi, in all of this you seemed to have forgotten one very important thing. She’s coming _back_. In a few months she’ll be, well, good as new! _Better_ , even.” He leans forward in his chair, eyes narrowing. “So take whatever bastardised mourning process this is, and _stow_ it.” He leans back again. “Am I understood?”

Lips parting to respond, Jacobi hesitates for an answer. Kepler’s right. Maxwell _is_ coming back. But it won’t be _his_ Maxwell, it’ll be whatever messed up thing Hell spits out that used to be her. All this time, he thought he’d made his peace with that. He thought he was okay with them dying, and going to Hell, and getting corrupted to the point of _demonhood_ to come back and live forever under Goddard.

It seemed like a good deal at the time. It’s still a good deal. Eternal life, for the price of a few months—or _decades_ —of suffering, for the price of loyalty to beings that just want the best for the world. Jacobi grits his teeth.

“Yes, sir,” he responds emptily. His back straightens on instinct.

“Good,” Kepler drawls. “Now, will you help me find the prisoners?”

 

* * *

 

They drive in silence, for a long time. Minkowski’s grip on the wheel is too tight, and Eiffel’s jaw is set strong enough to give him a headache, and Lovelace, as she always has to, thinks ahead. The trees pass in a blur around them, but it’s not too long until they hit a city, the group stuttering between driving around it and driving through it before Minkowski turns the wheel and drives straight into it. Lovelace says something halfhearted about hiding in plain sight.

Minkowski pulls the car over at a diner, climbing out before either Lovelace or Eiffel can question her and heading inside. “We haven’t eaten a proper meal in days,” she says, when they catch up to her. “Go grab a table.”

So they sit down at a table for four, all of them pretending the fourth chair’s emptiness isn’t _too_ noticeable, and they get coffee and burgers that they can no longer really afford since they probably just lost their jobs. Lovelace and Eiffel speak up at the same time.

“I need to find and kill Cutter,” Lovelace says, just as Eiffel demands, “We have to go back for Hera.”

They glare at each other.

“Duly noted, both of you,” Minkowski says tiredly, and pushes another fry into her mouth. They both now turn to glare at her, instead. “Oh, come on,” she snaps at their judgement. “What are we supposed to do? Drive our stolen car through the _literal_ gate to Hell and go in guns blazing?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Eiffel replies emphatically.

She rolls her eyes. “There’s three of us. There’s a _whole lot more_ of them. We’d be dead before you could even lock eyes with Cutter _or_ Hera.” Minkowski’s hand now wraps around her coffee, and she takes a drink, the bags under her eyes prominent.

“I think,” Lovelace starts, and her tongue darts out to wet her lips before she can carry on. “Kepler was asking a lot of questions, back there. About me. About why I’m here. And I think it’s something to do with us taking Cutter down— _me_ taking him down. I think that’s why I got brought back.”

Eiffel drops his head into his hands. His voice is muffled when he talks. “If Heaven wanted him dead so bad, why didn’t they just drop a lightning bolt on his head and be _done_ with it?”

“Because they’re cryptic bastards with a hard-on for destiny,” Lovelace replies calmly. Minkowski huffs a laugh. “Seriously, it’s the only thing that makes sense. I’m here for a reason, and if they want the Big Bad of Hell gone, they chose someone with enough— _vengeance_ , or whatever, to want to do it.”

“Someone who was killed unjustly,” Minkowski offers. “And righteous enough to only kill the people who need killing.” She swallows against what Lovelace is sure is the abrupt memory of Maxwell, a fraction of a second before she pulled the trigger, _the people who need killing_ — “Which,” Minkowski continues bitterly, “apparently, the rest of us are still trying to learn.”

Both Lovelace and Eiffel look at her, but Eiffel speaks first. “Hey,” he starts gently. “You were trying to do the right thing, okay? Hell, maybe you _did_ do the right thing. All we know about that chick is that she hurt Hera and she worked for the bad guys.”

“Hard to be a pacifist in this job,” Lovelace agrees, sipping on her own coffee. Minkowski shrugs their comments off, and they both realise there isn’t a lot they can say to her right now. They resume eating.

“You really think that’s why Heaven dropped you back down here?” Eiffel asks, glancing back at Lovelace. “To kill Cutter, I mean.”

Lovelace lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “Nothing else makes sense,” she replies. “Maybe—I mean, I don’t exactly know how to _ask_ them. Maybe we could find out if something like that has happened before. I can’t be the first, right?”

Eiffel’s eyes drop back to his plate unhappily. “Hera would know,” he says. “It’s her job to know stuff like that. History stuff, magical stuff.” He glances back up at Lovelace. “She was, like, our supernatural advisor, so we’d always call her with clues we’d picked up and she’d normally put them together to tell us what we’re dealing with. And she was _super_ good at it, too.”

With the hint of an affectionate smile tugging at the corners of Lovelace’s lips, she replies, “We had our own expert. Rhea.” The smile falls, and her eyebrows furrow in a frown. “Either of you know why Hera got trapped?”

They both shake their heads.

After a moment, Eiffel says, “She’s not dead,” and Lovelace and Minkowski nod. They don’t know that. It’s just easier to believe.

 

* * *

 

The motel they settle into that night is quiet, musty, and about everything the three of them are used to by now. Goddard doesn’t tend to overspend on their missions, so both Lovelace’s generation of hunters and Minkowski and Eiffel’s generation are used to the cracked mirrors, questionably-stained bedsheets and dirty carpets by now.

Eiffel collapses on the bed face-first, and Minkowski sits beside him, clearly exhausted. He’s snoring in seconds, and Lovelace would have to be blind not to see the underlying fondness in Minkowski’s gaze when she glances at him.

“Get some sleep,” Lovelace says quietly, and Minkowski is startled into looking up. “You clearly need it.”

“You’re not tired?” Minkowski asks doubtfully, and Lovelace waves her off.

“I can survive a few hours of playing the lookout.” Still making sure to be quiet enough not to wake Eiffel—not that it’s difficult, since his snores alone resemble something similar to an airplane’s engine—Lovelace pulls out the chair from underneath the desk in the corner of the room, dropping down into it and resting her feet on the desk’s surface.

Minkowski cracks a smile, at least, and she sighs before toeing off her shoes. “Thanks,” she says.

“Hey, thanks for breaking me out of that cell,” Lovelace replies easily. “Even if it was Selberg’s idea.”

Shrugging off her jacket, Minkowski tosses back, “Thanks for stepping out when Kepler and Jacobi were gonna kill Eiffel.” Catching Lovelace’s eye, she adds, “Yeah, I still remember that. I can’t believe you _already_ had a soft spot for him.”

Lovelace snorts a laugh. “I have a soft spot for Goddard not murdering innocent people,” she replies. Minkowski raises an eyebrow. “Shut up. And—while we’re here, thanks for believing me about all this in the first place. I bet you’re regretting not kicking me out of your car the moment you found me, but, hey. Best of a bad situation, right?”

“I’m not—” Minkowski glances away. “I’m just glad we know, now. Kind of feel stupid for not figuring it out earlier, but it’s not like a company that hires hunters screams _this is_ _run by Hell_.”

“It took me a long time to figure it out,” Lovelace admits. “Even after Sel— _Hilbert_ started sabotaging my group. And loads of people _still_ don’t know, so I reckon you’re doing okay.”

Minkowski nods, but Lovelace senses there’s something she isn’t saying. “Minkowski?” she asks, possibly to prompt her, possibly just to snap her back into the present. She coughs.

“I just,” she starts, and swallows. “How did you get into hunting, Captain?”

Lovelace raises her eyebrows. “I left the Air Force when my rule-breaking was starting to piss them off a little too much, and I was a trained fighter with nothing to lose. Goddard picked me up. Took a little persuading on the _monsters are real_ front, but once I believed them, I was sold.” She pauses. “You?”

“My husband,” Minkowski replies, but the words seem difficult on her tongue. “He died. Killed by demons, so I… wanted to avenge him.” She laughs bitterly. “Goddard recruited me after I’d been hunting solo for a while already.” Her eyes meet Lovelace’s, and she sees the anger in them. “I got into this to kill demons… and I just ended up working for them.”

An uneasy silence fills the room for a moment while Lovelace looks for something to say. “You—” she starts, but cuts herself off to try again. “I’m sorry about your husband. But I _think_ I know how to get some real revenge.”

A smile breaks out on Minkowski’s face again, real, genuine, and Lovelace is almost proud to have put it there. She opens her mouth to tell her, _go on, get some sleep_ , but a knock on the door stops her.

Both of them glance to the door. Then they look back to each other. Eiffel keeps snoring.

Silently, Lovelace swings her feet down, picking up the gun and heading to the door. She leans up to glance through the spyhole embedded in the door, and she sees—

“I know you’re in there,” Jacobi says, emotionless. “I’d recognise Eiffel’s snoring anywhere. It’s like a freight train.”

Lovelace glances back at Minkowski again, who stares back, wide-eyed, reaching for her gun. “Eh,” Lovelace replies, a light smile curling her lips. “I thought _airplane engine_ , actually.” She checks her gun is loaded.

Jacobi chuckles. It’s cold. “Open the door, Captain, or I’ll blow it off its hinges myself. _Yeah_ , I can do that.”

Glancing through the spyhole again, Lovelace looks around the limited space to try and discern if anyone else is waiting outside with Jacobi. The space looks clear, but she obviously can’t see very far. Her eyes flicker back to Minkowski. _He looks alone_ , she mouths.

Minkowski reaches to shake Eiffel awake, but clamps a hand over his mouth before he can say anything too loud. She leans down, and Lovelace assumes she’s relaying the situation in a whisper.

“Come on,” Jacobi says. “Don’t make me give you another countdown. Those always go so badly.”

Lovelace pulls the door open, and swings her gun up to aim between Jacobi’s eyes in the same movement. Her heart is racing as she glances around the area, even sticking her head outside the door to check nobody is above or beside it. Then, and only then, does she realise Jacobi isn’t armed.

“Maybe the door thing was an empty threat,” he explains, and she slumps slightly, rubbing a hand over her face.

Eiffel sits up behind her. “Why… how did you find us?”

Jacobi raises his eyebrows. “If Captain Lovelace could lower the gun she’s pointing at my face, I’d be _happy_ to answer that.” He must see the expression on Lovelace’s face, as he then adds, “Or, uh, I can do it now.”

“Better,” Lovelace murmurs, and Jacobi sticks a hand in his pocket to pull out what looks like the burned remains of a map.

“Kepler always thinks witchcraft is the easy way out,” he says, turning the map around and handing it over to her. She takes it, and sees the charred outline surrounding the block the motel is on. “Turns out, it’s just quick and boring. Really good if you want a head start.”

Minkowski stands up. “And you want a head start against Kepler… why?”

“To negotiate,” he replies evenly, but Lovelace sees the flash of anger in his gaze when he looks at Minkowski. “I need your help. And, trust me, if you want to be alive this time tomorrow, you’ll need mine.” He waits for them to respond, but when they don’t, he just sighs. “I’m getting Maxwell back. And you probably want Hera back—”

“Getting Maxwell back?” Lovelace interrupts. “ _How_?”

Jacobi rolls his eyes. “It’s almost like I was about to _explain_ that,” he says sarcastically. “Hell—specifically Kepler—owns Maxwell’s soul, so she’s currently downstairs doing some very heavy-duty penance. The kind that turns you black-eyed and bloodthirsty. I get into Hell, I can get her back.”

“And Hera?” Minkowski asks. “You were about to say something about her.”

“She’s alive,” Jacobi says, “you know, for now. And I’m pretty sure she’s still at Canaveral, since the whole point was she was bound to the place. It’d take too much effort to move her now unless they actually needed to.” He waves that away. “Anyway, magic like that, it takes a lot of effort to undo. Hilbert could’ve done it, but I blew a hole in his brain. Maxwell could do it.”

Shaking her head slightly, Lovelace says, “I think I’m starting to see where this is going.”

“Good!” Jacobi replies brightly. “You help me break into Hell to get Maxwell back, Maxwell frees Hera, we all live happily ever after.”

“What about Cutter?”

Jacobi blinks at her. “You mean, where is he? Or what do we do with him? Because I can tell you, the answer to the first is _anywhere he wants to be_ , and the answer to the second is _leave him the hell alone_.”

“And if we _don’t_ want to leave him the hell alone?” Lovelace challenges.

“You will,” Jacobi replies darkly. “Captain, I get the whole _he killed my friends and I’m sad_ thing—I’m here now, aren’t I? But Cutter’s a fight you won’t win. He’s normally in Canaveral, in his office, surrounded by about three thousand layers of security, or he’s in Hell. And not the fun part.”

Minkowski squints at him. “You’ve been to Hell?”

There’s a flash of memory behind Jacobi’s eyes. “Yeah,” he says, and something empty resides in his voice. “When I get down there, I’ll be able to get to Maxwell pretty easily. I just… need to get down there.” He grins at them. “That’s where you come in.”


	9. distraction

_“First off,” Jacobi says, “we’ll need a distraction. We can divert Kepler easily enough, but moving Goddard’s general attention away from Hell might take a little more effort.”_

Lovelace exhales carefully, plucking up the courage to push the door open. It’s been years since anyone last saw her face around here—barring Kepler, of course, but this entire _plan_ is barring Kepler. Security badge pinned to her shirt, spray can hidden beneath her suit jacket, heart in her throat, she steps inside the central reception area at Cape Canaveral.

“Captain?” asks Minkowski, slightly crackly in Lovelace’s earpiece. “Can you hear me?”

“Loud and clear,” she murmurs, smiling pristinely at everyone she passes before she reaches the reception desk. The receptionist glances up at her, and in her sweetest voice, she says, “Hi! Mandy Parker. I believe I have an appointment today?”

Minkowski evidently takes that as her cue to enter the computer system in a way that Jacobi taught her—which she sheepishly found out was a trick _Maxwell_ taught _him_ —as the screen flickers and dies, briefly, before reappearing. The receptionist glances at it. “Stupid machinery,” she mutters, before clicking on something and looking through it. “Amanda Parker?” she repeats. “Take the elevator up to the seventh floor. Someone will be waiting for you there.”

Lovelace thanks her, and heads towards the elevator.

_“You need a distraction?” Lovelace asks. “I know what would get pretty damn distracting.”_

_“Going after Cutter is too dangerous,” Jacobi argues. “You’d risk the whole thing on a petty revenge mission.”_

_Eiffel sits up. “Hey, that’s_ Heaven-sent _petty revenge mission to you.”_

_This makes Jacobi hesitate. His eyes dart back to Lovelace. “Wait,” he says slowly, “that’s why they brought you back? To—to kill Cutter?” Some element of conflict seems to cross his face—it occurs to Lovelace, then, that he hadn’t mentioned anything about hating Goddard. Only that he didn’t want Maxwell involved with them._

_But his throat clicks around a swallow, and he nods. “Fine. Your life on the line, here. Go after the King while we raid the dungeons.”_

The elevator dings as it reaches the seventh floor, and Lovelace steps out, glancing both ways. Nobody seems to be there, yet—that makes her job easier. She hears footsteps around the corner, and quickly dives into the nearest room to hide.

It’s a conference room. It’s almost disappointingly dull not to stumble directly into Cutter. But Minkowski speaks up, now. “Captain?”

“I’m here, Minkowski,” she replies. “Any news from Eiffel and Jacobi?”

“Not yet,” Minkowski says slowly, her voice tinny in the earpiece. “But Jacobi said they wouldn’t arrive as early. He’s still got to—”

Interrupting, Lovelace says, “Yeah, I know. I was there. Just checking.”

_“Well?” Eiffel asks. “What’s the actual plan?”_

_Jacobi’s eyes dart from Eiffel, to Minkowski, to Lovelace, and back to Eiffel. “Lovelace is the distraction,” he says, and before anyone can protest, continues with, “Minkowski is her backup. I can show you how to hack into Goddard’s internal system. Once you’re there, you won’t have long, but you’ll be able to get Lovelace to Cutter before you’re kicked out.”_

_“What about me?” Eiffel asks._

_“You’re with me,” Jacobi replies. “I’ve got to convince Kepler you’re on the other side of the country—I can fake that easily enough. It’ll lead him away, but when I go down to Hell, someone’s got to hold the door open for me.”_

_Minkowski narrows her eyes. “Why does Eiffel have to be the one to go with you?” she demands, ignoring Eiffel’s own half-hearted protest at being treated like a child._

_Holding her gaze evenly, Jacobi responds, “I trust him more than you. We got real chummy over the last few days, right, Eiffel?” Eiffel glares at him. “Right. Besides, he won’t double-cross me before I get Maxwell out. Too dependent on her coming back to save Hera. And, Lieutenant?”_

_Minkowski silently raises an eyebrow in response._

_“You come anywhere near Maxwell a second time, I’ll shoot you myself. Clear?”_

_Lovelace has to hand it to Minkowski—she takes the threat easily, and only gives a nod to respond, seemingly unfazed. Eiffel looks visibly uncomfortable going with Jacobi, but he doesn’t reject him._

“I just don’t like leaving him alone with both of them,” Minkowski says, huffing over the connection. Lovelace grins. “Anyway, go to the end of the corridor. Turn left.”

Obeying her instructions, Lovelace reaches another choice in direction. Minkowski continues to instruct her on where to go— _left, right, right, straight ahead, no don’t touch that_ —while monitoring her on the security cameras Jacobi hacked into for her.

Just as Lovelace finds what looks to be the biggest office in the building, Minkowski’s connection fills with a sharp static—then dies. “Minkowski,” Lovelace whispers. “ _Minkowski, do you copy_.”

Reason tells her Cutter might have spells or sigils around the office to protect himself. The back of her mind wonders if someone got to Minkowski. Reason reminds her she shouldn’t care about that.

_“How do you even kill the King of Hell?” Minkowski asks. “This isn’t just an exorcism. You need to push him out of existence completely, and I don’t know if a way to do that exists.”_

_“That’s actually adorable,” Jacobi replies, and smiles sweetly when she glares at him. “There’s plenty of things that could take him out. Well—a handful. Any Biblical relic oughta do it. But, on the off-chance you don’t have your hands on any of those, an angel blade would do. On the off-chance that angels don’t interact with this realm of existence—except to bring back chosen ones, of course, Captain—then there’s a gun. The Colt.”_

_Lovelace sits forward. “Where is it?”_

_“Tucked safely and snugly in Cutter’s own jacket, normally,” Jacobi replies cheerfully. Lovelace sits back dejectedly. “Giving up that easily? All you need to do is wrestle the guy’s most prized possession off him and shoot him with it… without him crushing your windpipe in the process, of course.”_

_There’s a pause. Jacobi looks altogether far too smug for Lovelace’s liking, so she clicks her tongue. “Devil’s trap,” she replies. “If I can get into his office when he isn’t there and wait for him to come back, I can draw a trap he can’t avoid. I wait for him, he comes in, gets stuck, I… figure it out from there.”_

_Jacobi raises an eyebrow. “Suit yourself,” he mutters._

Lovelace steps inside Cutter’s office. It’s empty, predictably, luckily, and she quietly closes the door behind her as she surveys the area.

It’s a beautiful room. Modern, sleek, decorated with misted glass and metallic furniture as any corporate centre would be, it looks relatively untouched. The desk is clear. The carpet, windows, and walls are all pristine. Lovelace pulls back the elegant rug adorning the centre of the office—the only place she could possibly hide a trap—and, spray can in hand, begins to paint.

“Minkowski?” she tries again, fear curling in her gut at the lack of a response. _Focus_. She finishes drawing the circle, as wide as she can make it while the rug can still cover it over, and begins drawing the symbols inside.

It’s like muscle memory; the symbols come back to her easily, despite it clearly being years since she last tried to draw one of these. Combined, the symbols can trap any demon within the circle—once they step inside, they can’t leave. They’re powerless.

It might be called a _devil’s_ trap, but this is the first time she’s tried to trap the King of Hell himself. She grits her teeth against any fear that wells up inside her at the thought. _You’re here now. No turning back_.

She kicks the rug back over the painted trap, making sure to smooth down the rug’s corners. Just as she tucks the spray can away and not a second later, though, the door opens.

Lovelace looks up quick enough to crack her neck. “Minkowski?”

Minkowski (who _shouldn’t even be here in the first place_ , according to the plan) closes the door behind her. “Captain,” she greets stiffly. “The plan’s changed. I needed to tell you in person.”

A beat of silence hangs in the air between them. Lovelace blinks. “What’s… changed?” she asks slowly.

“Eiffel and Jacobi are dead,” Minkowski replies steadily, and Lovelace’s blood runs cold. “Oh, and… so are you.”

Lovelace doesn’t even have the chance to stumble over a confused _what?_ before Minkowski draws a gun, pointing it evenly and unrepentantly at her head. Her hands shoot up in surrender, an automatic gesture, but she can’t figure out what is— _oh_.

There’s an icy weight in her gut as she says, quietly, “You’re not Minkowski.”

The thing playing as Minkowski curls her lips in a cold smile. “And you’re not as slow as you look,” she replies.

She blinks. In the brief gesture, her eyes cloud into pure black smudges— _demon, she’s possessed, something’s possessing her_ —and then she blinks again, and it’s gone.

Lovelace swallows. Slowly, carefully, she tries for a word she _really_ doesn’t want to say. “Cutter.”

Minkowski barks a short, sharp laugh, and the gun doesn’t move a fraction of an inch. “You wish,” she replies amusedly. “I’ll let him know you assumed that. It’s kind of adorable. But, no, I’m not Marcus.”

_Marcus?_

“My name is Miranda Pryce,” she continues, “and you’re _really_ ruining my day.”


	10. not your first rodeo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @kalgalen on tumblr drew this REALLY cool piece for this fic and i'm still in awe so go check it out !! 
> 
> http://kalgalen.tumblr.com/post/170089300483/hell-culture-is-shotgunning-your-shadow-self

_“First off,” Jacobi says, “we’ll need a distraction. We can divert Kepler easily enough, but moving Goddard’s general attention away from Hell might take a little more effort.”_

The plan begins to fall apart, evidently, _very_ quickly.

Burning a map to locate Eiffel, Minkowski and Lovelace as being up towards North Carolina is easy enough. Jacobi enters Kepler’s office the next morning, sleepless, buzzing with a tight anxiety that only the prospect of _visiting Hell_ could conjure up, and drops the map on his desk. “Found them,” he says emotionlessly. He swallows down any vague semblance of guilt that curls around his throat when Kepler’s eyes light up.

“Good boy,” he croons, and Jacobi exhales. “I knew you could.”

A moment later, he pushes his chair back, stepping out from behind his desk and catching Jacobi’s wrist in his hand. Jacobi blinks at him, startled, and all he manages to say is, “Sir?”

“Ready for a trip to North Carolina?” Kepler asks.

Jacobi slumps his shoulders. He was prepared for Kepler to ask that. “Might wanna take a better crew,” he replies. “I got, like, no sleep last night. Really not on my A-game. And this seems like… something we can’t afford to screw up.”

It should work. Any other time, Kepler would accept that. Except—

“Sleep on the journey, Daniel.” Kepler’s voice is quiet—not threatening, just soft. “It’ll do you some good to get back on a real job.” He hesitates. “I know Maxwell’s death was a shock for you, and this… this will help. I promise.”

_Oh, hell no_. Jacobi doesn’t need _this_ to be the time Kepler actually grows a soul. “Sir, that’s really not—”

“A choice? You’re completely right, Mr Jacobi. It’s an _order_.” Kepler grins at him. “Come on. I thought you wanted some vengeance.”

 

* * *

 

_“I’m gonna tell Kepler you’re in a different part of the country,” Jacobi says, “and then he’s gonna go after you. It’ll push him out of the way—by the time he finds out I’m lying, we’ll be done. Probably. Hopefully.” His gaze flickers to Eiffel. “Wait for me outside the main building at Cape Canaveral, but stay, you know, unseen.”_

_“I can do that,” Eiffel replies. “I can totally do that.”_

_Jacobi raises an eyebrow, but says nothing else on the subject. “I’ll text you when Kepler’s out of the way, then I’ll get you into the building myself. Don’t try to get in without me. It won’t work.” He shifts nervously. “There’s only one easy-access portal to Hell on the planet, and it’s at the bottom of the basement facilities. Other gates exist, sure, but they’re… warded. We’ve gotta go into the heart of the enemy lair—also known as my workplace, of course—to get in.”_

Eiffel is waiting. Eiffel has been waiting for an hour. Eiffel is bored.

It feels like days before his phone buzzes, and he pulls it out in a second, swiping to see the text from Jacobi he’s been waiting on this entire time.

>> kepler’s makign me go wth him

>> go to hell yrself, the gate’s at hte sub-sub-basement facility

>> find maxwell and get back to the gate. i’ll tlel minkowski you’re in there n she’ll have to get you out if i dont make it back in time

Eiffel’s gut twists fearfully. Instinctively, he wants to push the phone back in his pocket—to pretend he didn’t receive the message and continue as before. To not go to Hell.

_But Hera_.

He lets out a frustrated groan, and emerges from the bush he was hiding in oh-so-spectacularly; brushing the twigs from his hair, he walks across the quiet courtyard, eyes fixed on the building he needs to get inside.

_Don’t attract attention. Stay quiet. Get to the bottom floor_.

Easier said than done.

“If anyone could improvise themselves into the middle of Hell Incorporated,” Eiffel murmurs to himself, trying to inject a semblance of courage into his own mind, “it’s you.”

This is a complete lie. Nonetheless, he takes a deep breath, and steps inside.

_“Time runs slower in Hell,” Jacobi says. “Or, faster. I don’t really—anyway, it runs on a different time stream, which is part of the reason why it’s so sucky to be down there. A month up here equates to about ten years in Hell.”_

_“Holy crap,” Lovelace murmurs in response._

_Jacobi presses his lips together. “Which is why getting to Maxwell isn’t exactly something we can stall. The good news about that, though, is that five minutes up here is, like, ten hours down there. Which means I’ll have plenty of time to get down there, find Maxwell, and get back to the gate, while you only need to hold the gate open for—like, a handful of minutes. Got it?”_

_Eiffel nods slowly. “So, I only need to man the station for, like, less time than it takes Minkowski to do her hair in the morning.”_

_“Unnecessary,” Minkowski interrupts pointedly._

_“Sure,” Jacobi replies. “It also means if you close the gate for any reason, even for just a tiiiny, insignificant minute, we’re gonna be stuck down there for hours. No pressure.”_

_Eiffel gulps. “Right,” he mutters. “No pressure.”_

The building is busy, inside—Eiffel slips into the crowd and hopes they can’t hear the pounding of his heart. He finds the elevator easily enough, keeping his head down, watching the numbers tick down quietly as he stands in silence among people he presumes are demons and humans alike. All Goddard employees.

By the time it arrives at the bottom floor, he’s the only one left.

He swallows nervously, and steps out.

The lights on this floor are as clinically bright and white as the rest of the building, but nonetheless, the stretching corridor in front of Eiffel holds a more eerie energy. He steps out hesitantly, glancing around before following the only path laid out for him to go down. The place seems empty—he knows it won’t be, he’s not dumb enough to make that mistake, but something still feels… off.

He rounds the corner, and comes face to face with two guards.

“Doug Eiffel?” one of them asks, and he curses silently. Of course they’d know his face by now. The entirety of Goddard’s underworld is looking for him.

Still, he recalls those incredible improvisation skills he knows he has, and replies, “Um.”

A moment of silence hangs between them.

Eiffel makes his mind up. “Uh, duh, sure,” he replies, leaning against the wall casually. “I’m _totally_ Doug Eiffel, ’cause he’d _totally_ just waltz into the middle of Canaveral, right?” He scoffs. “The guy’s an idiot, sure, but you gotta give him _some_ credit.”

The guards relax. “Dumb enough to get himself possessed,” one of them replies jokingly.

“ _Hey_ ,” Eiffel protests, and then coughs. “This… smart, _exceedingly_ handsome man was pretty damn tough to pin down. I had my work cut out for me, boys, I’m telling you.” He coughs again. “Anyway, let me through, I got work to do—uh, downstairs.”

The guards squint at him. “You’re willingly going down there?”

Eiffel huffs, blowing his fringe out of his eyes impatiently. “This ain’t my first rodeo,” he replies. “Some of us aren’t babies. _Yes_ , I’m willingly going down there. Like I said: let me through.”

The two guards seem to take a moment between them, silently deciding, before they step aside. Eiffel breezes through, coolly and casually, and glances back at them. “Oh, and, Tweedledum, I need you to keep the gate open for me while I’m down there. Should only be a few minutes.”

The guard blinks. “I can open the gate for you,” he replies slowly, “but I can’t keep it open. I need to stand guard.”

Eiffel hesitates.

“Fine,” he agrees, before his brain can fully catch up to the ridiculous decision he’s making. “Open sesame, I don’t have all day.”

Watching a Goddard employee snap to attention and follow his instructions is… weirdly satisfying, but he’ll deal with that concerning, subconscious pattern later. For now, he heads down the rest of the corridor, and faces… a brick wall.

“You sure you wanna—” the guard starts, but Eiffel nods. “Okay.”

Eiffel watches as the guard cuts open his hand, trying not to wince—it always was his least favourite part of any ritual—and instead staring at the symbols he begins to draw on the wall in his blood. It finishes with a large circle in the centre, and the guard starts to mutter something in Latin that Eiffel can’t quite catch.

He presses his hand against the wall. The bloody symbols light up, briefly, before the bricks inside the circle begin to crumble away.

Heart in his throat, Eiffel stares at the sight, unable to look away as the wall is yanked away piece by piece by some unknown force on the other side of the rift. He covers his face with his arms, instinctively, and the guard simply laughs at him. “Not your first rodeo, huh?”

“ _Shut up_ ,” he counters maturely, and swallows his fear. _This is for Hera. You have to find Maxwell. You’re going into the depths of Hell itself and ohmygodIcan’tdothisdon’tmakeme—it’s for Hera._

_It’s for Hera._

He jumps.


	11. think twice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there is ANOTHER wonderful piece of art for this fic and i literally want to cry it's so pretty
> 
> http://kalgalen.tumblr.com/post/170124314618/yeah-i-have-no-excuse-pls-go-read-isabel-lovelace

“You can’t kill me,” Lovelace says evenly, not taking her eyes off Pryce’s gun, “or you would’ve already done it.” She forces herself not to look down at the rug between them, at the trap, _just take one more step and you’ll get stuck_.

“Not necessarily,” Pryce muses. “Maybe I just like playing with my food.”

Pryce’s smile is ugly on Minkowski, and a burst of heated anger flits through Lovelace as she realises _just_ how much she wants to pull the expression off Minkowski’s face herself. “Let her go,” she says, suddenly, unexpectedly—she didn’t even _want_ to say that. Her mouth runs on without her permission. “Minkowski is a good hunter and you _know_ that—she doesn’t deserve to be wrapped up in this. Just let her go, and we can talk.”

One careful eyebrow raises on Minkowski’s— _Pryce’s_ —face, and she chuckles. “Okay, if you’re just going to bargain with me to _pretty please_ save all your friends, then this is going to get dull. It was nice meeting you, Isabel Lovelace.”

She steps forward, and pulls the trigger. Lovelace flinches.

And stares.

Specifically, she stares at the bullet paused in mid-air, inches in front of her face.

It clatters to the ground after a moment, loud against the floorboards, and Lovelace’s confused gaze glances from the bullet to Pryce in front of her. She straightens up, slightly emboldened, and smiles at her.

“So… you can’t kill me,” she says, somewhat cheerful. “I guess it’s a leftover gift from Heaven. Also—” Her eyes flicker down to the rug, the specific placement of Pryce’s foot, and a surge of relief floods through her. “Check under the rug.”

Pryce’s eyes— _Minkowski’s_ eyes—flicker down. “Devil’s trap,” she murmurs, not even needing to lift the rug to realise what’s underneath it. She looks back up at Lovelace. For a brief, fleeting moment, Lovelace thinks she looks well and truly _trapped_.

But then her eyebrow arches again. “You’re right,” Pryce replies, “I can’t kill you. But I’m sure I can think of something else to keep your cooperation.”

With those words, she immediately turns the gun on herself, and pulls the trigger. There’s a brutal, sharp convulsion that wracks through her body, but it’s brief, and she’s upright again, the same, cruel smile on her face—

Lovelace throws an arm forward, crying out to stop her, but it’s too late. Despairingly, she stares at the bloodstain creeping across the stomach of Minkowski’s torn shirt. All she can do is mumble, “Shit.”

“You might want to think twice about an exorcism,” Pryce tells her. “Because right now? I’m the only thing keeping this body, and your friend, alive.”

 

* * *

 

The first thing Eiffel remembers is the terror. The second thing he remembers is the rift. Now, scrambling to his feet in the wrong dimension, he remembers the silence.

Hell isn’t what he imagined—there’s no screaming, no fire, no hyena laughter or little red pitchforks. There’s silence, and silence, and darkness, and darkness, and then—if he _really_ concentrates—he can recognise a little more silence and darkness. There’s also a corridor. He’s pretty glad there’s a corridor.

“Okay,” he murmurs to himself, carefully taking a step down the corridor and trying not to wince as the rift closes up behind him. “Five minutes, ten hours. You’ve got time.” He hesitates. “Too much time. Way too much time. Don’t want that kinda time down here.” His fingertips are shaking. “Find Maxwell, get out.” He glances around himself, but it’s this same corridor and nothing else. “No chance of a signpost around here, right? Maybe a satnav?”

Really, he should be thankful that nobody answered him, because this isn’t the sort of place where he’d want to bump into the locals. He keeps walking.

The corridor is endless, it would seem, stretching out through miles and miles and lining his way with dark, dense bricks, slightly eroded, slightly damp, everything he might expect from a Victorian London alleyway and not the entrance to Hell itself. There’s a deep sense of unease weighted in his gut. He has no choice but to walk.

 

* * *

 

 

Jacobi texts Lovelace.

>> where are u

No response.

Jacobi texts Minkowski.

>> yo. update

No response.

He bounces his leg nervously the entire car ride, well aware he can’t do anything, well aware he can’t say anything, well aware he can’t save Maxwell because he’s on some highway up north and getting further away from her by the minute. Kepler is less animated than usual, today—there are no road trip games, no stories that sprout from things he sees out the window, no aimless chatter where all he wants to hear is the sound of his own voice—maybe he’s aware of how on edge Jacobi feels. Maybe he knows the whole plan.

“Jacobi,” he starts in the silence, and Jacobi turns his head. “Who do you keep messaging?”

Jacobi raises his eyebrows. “First sign of a possessive relationship.”

Somehow, this startles a chuckle from Kepler. “You’ll have to excuse me,” he replies amicably. “Possession is half my career.” Despite himself, Jacobi smirks at the comment, and something inside him twinges at the realisation that he’s about to lose everything they’ve built together.

His cell rings, and he recognises Lovelace’s number. He answers it before he can even consider otherwise. “Hello?”

Kepler glances at him interestedly, and he studiously avoids his gaze, heart hammering in this throat. There’s a long pause on the other end of the line. “You know,” says a voice, something distinctly _not_ Isabel Lovelace but familiar in a way that crawls across Jacobi’s skin and settles uncomfortably in his gut, “I expected better from you, Daniel.”

“Mr Cutter,” he says, and the responding laugh makes him tighten his grip on the phone. Kepler looks concerned, now. “Look, sir, I—”

“I don’t want to hear it,” Cutter replies delicately. “In fact, I don’t want to hear _you_. Put Warren on the phone! I’ve got some news about his second in command.”

Jacobi hesitates. “Lovelace—”

“Is safe and sound, riiiight here, I can assure you.”

His hand trembles slightly as he passes the phone over to Kepler, who rigidly detaches a hand from the wheel to take it from him. Jacobi can’t quite breathe. “Mr Cutter,” he hears Kepler say, then, “yes, sir. Yes, sir. Yes. Thank you, sir.”

With a muted fascination, Jacobi watches Kepler’s grip tighten on the wheel fractionally.

“Thank you—yes, okay. Goodbye.”

He hangs up the phone. The car rolls to a stop. Jacobi’s eyes track the way Kepler’s fingers drum against the wheel for a few moments—just a light tapping, but telling enough for Jacobi to know exactly what’s coming next.

Only, it doesn’t come. Kepler starts the engine again, wordless, and turns the car around on the road. Jacobi waits for the anger—the dressing-down that could feel like he was stripping his _very_ bones bare, the fire that sparks his eyes alight to burn just enough that Jacobi remembers where this man came from, the escalation in his tone as he melts from _not mad, just disappointed_ to _wait, no, both mad and disappointed_.

Still, it doesn’t come.

Kepler begins the drive back to Cape Canaveral. Jacobi pretends he isn’t terrified of what waits for him there.

A few miles down the road, because he never _could_ keep his mouth shut, Kepler asks, “What was your plan?”

The question isn’t accusatory, it’s not angry, it’s merely amicable curiosity and it makes Jacobi’s skin crawl.

Jacobi swallows. “To get Maxwell and get out of here.”

“Hiding where?” Kepler asks, still patient.

Instead of answering, Jacobi’s eyes flicker to the scenery blurring past them through the window. In all honesty, he didn’t have a plan. He knew Goddard still had tabs on him. He knew that his soul still belonged to Kepler until he died and he knew he was heading straight for Hell. Better yet, he knew he wouldn’t be able to get a way _out_ of Hell afterwards.

“I don’t know,” he replies coolly. “Figuring it out as I go.”

“Is that so.” The eerie monotone in Kepler’s voice is unusual to Jacobi – practically unheard of, in fact. “And you were aware, even if you _did_ manage to pull off this… ridiculous stunt, that you wouldn’t be able to avoid your own eventual fate.”

Knee bouncing again nervously, Jacobi says, “Yes, sir.”

“But you were going to do it anyway.” The car rolls on in silence for a moment, interrupted only by the hum of the engine. Jacobi doesn’t respond; he doesn’t have anything to say. His eyes flicker briefly to the side to see Kepler’s clenched jaw and he swallows again, his exhale shakier than he’d like it to be. “Mr Jacobi,” Kepler continues, and that voice seems deadlier than ever before, “are you aware of the position you’ve put me in?”

The trees surrounding them begin to thin out. Jacobi’s eyes studiously track them. “Mr Cutter won’t—”

“Mr Cutter wants me to flay you alive with an audience,” Kepler responds icily. “Between you and I, it’s not a terrible suggestion.” His voice lowers. “I trusted you. I gave you this second chance to pull yourself together and you throw it away? For what? _Petty revenge_?”

“To save my friend,” Jacobi grits out.

Kepler laughs. It’s humourless. “Oh, that’s adorable,” he replies, and Jacobi’s gut twists. “It never occurred to you that Maxwell asked for this? That _you_ asked for this? How do you know she even _wants_ to be saved?”

The truth is, he doesn’t.

The truth is, it didn’t occur to him what Maxwell wants, because all he knows is what _he_ wants. And _he_ wants her to come back. _He_ misses her like this deep-set ache in his bones, like an itch he can’t scratch because he knows he’d rip the skin off, like a ghost in the back of his mind that reminds him, _sure, she might come back, but she’d never be the Alana Maxwell you remember_.

The truth is that he loves her, and the annoying thing about loving someone is that suddenly they matter more than life itself.

His eyes are still tracking the trees. Before Kepler can get comfortable in his self-satisfaction at Jacobi’s non-answer, Jacobi reaches out and grabs the wheel. He tugs. The car veers off to the side.

Kepler shouts something, but Jacobi doesn’t hear it. The car drives headfirst into the tree. His world goes black.


	12. little great escape

No matter what Eiffel tries, the corridor just stretches on.

Twelve or so hours into the journey, he sat down and cried. Twenty hours in, he pounded on the brick wall until his knuckles were bleeding. Now, he just keeps walking. The walls seem to be endlessly narrowing in, but they never actually meet; he doesn’t even know how it manages that. He stopped caring a couple of days ago. His face is still as stubbled as it was when he arrived, his hair just as clean, his boots nowhere near wearing on the sole, but he’s been walking for over a week and he doubts there’s an end in sight.

The one thing he hasn’t tried is looking back. Deep down, he knows he can’t.

The silence presses in on him, but he keeps putting one foot in front of the other, step by step, second by second, as the underworld ticks on in one endless corridor. Maybe he’s dead. Maybe this is his eternal damnation— _a really freaking long walk_. Whoever designed this personal Hell did a good job, at least.

Eiffel keeps moving, because Hera is counting on this. Minkowski is counting on this. Maxwell, for all he hates her, is counting on him to get her out of this place.

At one point, he trips and falls, landing heavily on the cobblestones beneath him. He doesn’t get back up.

(He needs to leave. He needs to turn around and walk back to the gate and get out—)

He knows he can’t turn around. He just doesn’t know why.

Hera sits down next to him, after a while, and begins gently combing her fingers through his hair. “You’re doing so well,” she says, quiet and simple and echoing all around him. “You’ve almost found her.”

Eiffel huffs, his breath washing over the stones. “Darling, I haven’t found _anyone_ ,” he tells her. His head leans into her hand. “I’m gonna die here. I’m gonna die, in Hell. I can’t save Maxwell. I can’t save you. Like, I don’t think I can even read road signs, since this stupid corridor’s been going for _hours_.”

“Nine days,” Hera corrects, and Eiffel blinks the tears out of his eyes. “Officer Eiffel, _think_. What’s the one thing you’ve always done?” He hesitates, and she sighs. “You haven’t done it since you got here. But you’re doing it right now.”

“Aren’t you in my head?” Eiffel groans. He pushes up onto his elbows. “Can’t you give me some non-cryptic clues so Maxwell and I can pull our little _Great Escape_ faster?”

Hera pulls her hand away, and Eiffel misses it immediately. “I’m in your head, yes,” she replies. “But you’re still talking to me.”

“What does that _mean_?” Eiffel demands.

“That one,” she says with a sad smile, “you have to figure out yourself.” She cups his cheek with her hand and leans forward, and Eiffel lets his eyelids flutter closed just as her lips press against his forehead.

When they open, there are tears he didn’t think he had the energy for forming in the corners. “I hate this place,” he says. “It’s messing with my head. I’m seeing things, I’m talking to myself, hell, I’m not even sure I can—”

“Get up.”

Hera’s voice is so demanding, so contrasting to her normal friendly tone, that Eiffel just… complies. Shakily, he stands up, and leans his shoulder against the wall for a moment. “Now what?”

Hera huffs. “You tell me,” she says, and when he blinks, she’s gone.

“Figures,” Eiffel mutters, and he continues walking.

 

* * *

 

Nine days becomes… significantly longer, and Eiffel mulls over everything Hera tried to tell him.

“One thing I’ve always done,” he says out loud, and winces as his voice begins to echo against the walls. Nobody’s going to hear him—nobody’s heard him since he arrived. “One thing I’ve always done, and I hadn’t done it since I got here, but I’m doing it now.”

It doesn’t make any sense.

“What do I do?” he asks himself. “I hunt monsters. I _haven’t_ done that since I got here, but I’m also… not doing it now. Scratch that off the list. I eat? Not eating right now. I… well, I’ve been walking this entire time. Come on. Come on.”

He thuds his head against the wall.

“If Hera gave me a clue, and Hera’s in my head, then I already know what I need to do. I just don’t know that I know it. Can you know something and not know that you know it? Do you still know it if you don’t know it?”

He chuckles lowly.

“This is just getting Freudian.”

His feet are trailing along the floor a little as he thinks.

“I could find this at any point. Walking around and looking for a sign of civilisation is doing… nothing. Theoretically, when I figure out how to find Maxwell, I’ll actually just find her.”

He stops walking. Hesitantly, he presses his hand to the wall.

“I break stuff,” he says to himself. “Haven’t done that since I got here. But—”

Fingers digging into the gaps in the cement, Eiffel tries to wrench the brick from the wall. It doesn’t budge.

“But I’m not doing that now,” he reasons. “I’m just talking. I’m just talking to myself and—”

His words get caught in his throat. After a moment, his hand falls from the wall.

“I’m talking,” he says slowly. “Something I’m always doing, haven’t done it since I got here, started doing it when Hera appeared. I’m _talking_.” He hesitates. “Wait, so I have to just… for god’s sake.”

He clears his throat.

“Can I speak to—or find—or get directions to—Alana Maxwell?”

Nothing.

Then, something.

The bricks begin to crumble away to his left, much like they did when the demons in the Goddard basement summoned the portal to Hell. They scatter into nothingness, rubble that disappears before Eiffel’s very eyes and collapses into the void, and then, just as his hand lifts to protect his eyes from the inky black, there’s a door.

He pushes it open.

 

* * *

 

Eiffel only saw Alana Maxwell once, and it was when she arrived in his life to take Hera away from him. Ironically, now he’s sought Maxwell out so she can return her.

It’s painfully obvious that Maxwell isn’t a person—not anymore, at least—as her very essence is beginning to flicker at the corners. She’s sat in the corner of the cell, her dreadlocks beginning to melt into black smoke, her fingertips hazy, her gaze scraped to the bone as he meets her eyes.

“How long have you _been_ here?” he asks.

“I lost count after the first couple of months,” she replies, and gives him a translucent smile with the same black smoke staining her teeth like blood. Eiffel gets it. This isn’t Maxwell the person, this is Maxwell the soul. And, piece by piece, it’s decaying.

He swallows, watching the tilt of her neck as she stretches it so far he expects to hear a snap. “Jacobi sent me.” He feels the urge to justify his presence. “He wanted me to get you out of here.”

Maxwell sits up. The vague image of her body takes a moment to catch up with her. “Jacobi,” she repeats, and Eiffel feels sick to his stomach when he realises she’s trying to remember who that is. “Daniel Jacobi. Intelligence.” Her lips move around the word awkwardly, and Eiffel decides to lower his eyes altogether. “Partner. I remember him. We were going to move in together.”

“Partner,” Eiffel repeats, “yeah. He wants you back. He misses you. And we need you.”

Maxwell stares at him. Eiffel can’t see it, eyes still cast to the ground, but he feels it. “Why the hell should I trust you?” she asks. “I get visited enough. This could be another elaborate torture method.” A hesitation. “But I categorised them chronologically, and today wouldn’t be something new.”

“You categorised them?” Eiffel blurts out in surprise, before shaking his head. “Whatever. I’ve been walking for, like, two weeks straight. I’m tired. I wanna leave this place, and I’m leaving with you. Right now, Jacobi’s risking his ass to divert Kepler away from here so I can get you. You follow me out of here, save my friend, and waltz off into the sunset with your boyfriend. Okay?”

There’s a long pause.

Then, Maxwell starts cackling.

“He—you thought—you thought Jacobi’s my _boyfriend_?” She pretends to wipe a tear away, and a tiny trail of smoke follows the movement delicately. “Oh, that’s good. I’m telling him that.” Eiffel rolls his eyes impatiently, but just as he opens his mouth to hurry her along, she stands up.

“ _Thank_ you,” he sighs, and turns to leave the room. “Okay, the journey took—like— _two weeks_ , so I hope you’ve got your walking boots on. This is gonna be a long ride.”

It’s Maxwell’s turn to roll her eyes, and she nudges him aside. “Hell doesn’t work like that, unfortunately.”

“What do you—” _Mean_. Eiffel steps through the door back into the corridor, and comes face to face with… the wall he crashed through two weeks ago. “How is that here.”

“It followed you, genius,” she trills. “You haven’t actually _gone_ anywhere this entire time. Neat, right?” She glances at his dumbstruck expression. “I helped design this corner of Hell. It’s a particular torture method inspired to catch anyone who attempts to break in. Like you.”

Eiffel glares at the wall. “And Jacobi couldn’t have mentioned that to me before, _why_?”

“Because he’s an asshole,” she replies gleefully. “Or he was busy. Sounds like quite an elaborate plan you set up.” After a moment, she presses her hand against the wall. “Which, speaking of, how are you getting out of here?”

Eiffel hesitates. “That…” He sighs. “That is a very good question.”

“Nobody’s there to _open the portal_?”

“We had a change of plan!” he snaps. “ _I_ was supposed to hold the door open, and _Jacobi_ was supposed to come in and find you. It’s not _my_ fault Jacobi screwed up his part of the plan!”

It begins to dawn on Maxwell just what this means. “So we could be stuck here for hours,” she says. “Or days. Or _months_.”

Eiffel rubs his face. “Someone will come,” he insists. “And I can totally wait. Just. Sit here with you for the next—” A thought interrupts him. “How long until they notice you’re gone?”

“Minutes? Hours?” Maxwell shrugs. “When they notice, they’ll check the Goddard morgue first—assuming that’s where my body is—and then when I’m still comfortably nestled in it, they’ll check out this dimension. I give us about an hour before we’re busted.”

“That’s—”

“Which is about half a minute on Earth,” she muses, “so we’re kind of screwed.”

Eiffel groans. “It can’t end like this. You need to save Hera. If you stay stuck down here, she’s gonna stay stuck up there, and she’ll never—she’s never—there’s gotta be _some_ way we can get out from the inside.”

Shaking her head, Maxwell replies, “Nothing. It takes demons years to escape this place—humans don’t stand a chance, living _or_ dead.” She pauses. “You came here so I could free Hera?”

He nods, leaning tiredly against the wall. “I just wanted her to be safe,” he says. His voice cracks. “Couldn’t even manage that much.”

It’s evident Maxwell has nothing to say to that, so she just stays quiet, allowing the silence to creep up between them thickly. Eiffel can still hear the quiet dripping in the distance that drove him crazy the entire time he was walking, and his own rattling breath, exhausted not from the walk but from the thoughts that buzz around his brain a hundred miles an hour the moment he’s left alone, and of course there’s the quiet crumbling of bricks—

The quiet crumbling of bricks as the wall they stand in front of begins to open.

“Is that the portal?” Eiffel shouts over the crescendo, bathed in a light that floods the dim corridor as brilliantly as his own personal sun. “It’s _opening_? Why is it opening?”

Maxwell grins, and her eyes finally seem bright again. “Only one way to find out,” she replies, and grips his arm as everything falls away to the sun. Eiffel closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and lets himself fall in.


	13. interlude ii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have almost finished writing the entirety of this fic, so now i know it's gonna have 16 chapters! they should all be uploaded within a couple of weeks <3

When she was four, she was told she was a child prodigy. A man crouched in front of her and smiled at her kindly, asked her if she wanted to belong to a family. She nodded. She’s always wanted a family.

When she was eight, her father took her into work. He sat her down in front of a big, big book full of ancient languages, and asked her to read it. She did as she was told.

The book was difficult to read through, but manageable. She found herself skimming through with ease in comparison to the other girls around her, and then she took the book home, and then she read it deep into the night with her desk lamp illuminating the pages for her.

It took her a month to read through it. And the moment she turned the last page, she opened the first one again.

When she was nine, she took the book back into her father’s workplace. He sat her down in front of another one. This time, she didn’t take it home with her—instead, she stayed there with it. She fell asleep beside the book and she woke in the morning to read it.

Another book replaced it. Then another.

She realised she was twelve, and she barely remembered what her life was like outside of the facility. She didn’t remember her father’s face, didn’t remember her bedroom at home, didn’t remember the orphanage or the personality she had before she began reading these dusty, leather-bound books.

A man told her she had a gift, that she could process languages and numbers and concepts faster and better than anyone else. By that point, she’d learned twenty languages. The number seemed insignificant at the time.

When she was fifteen, they ran out of books to give her. They held her down and branded her with a scar on the back of her neck, and she screamed, because this was never the deal—the deal was that she read, and she explained, and she wrote, and she read.

The day after, she remembered none of it.

When she was eighteen, they gave her a desk in an office and told her that all her knowledge, her languages, her memories—it was all training. She would sit beside a phone, and talk to the people that needed her help, and continue her studies from there. A man sat beside her—gruff, cold, but kind nonetheless. He helped her. He studied her.

When she was nineteen, Officer Eiffel walked into her life, and it was never the same after. He listened to her talk. He compared her aimless rambling about supernatural trivia to his own aimless rambling about popular culture. He gasped dramatically when she admitted she’s never watched _Star Wars_ , and then he bought her trinkets from his travels. The tiny dolphin statue that sat on her monitor. The flowering cactus that she routinely waters every three days. The sticker on her folder that said _my best friend went to Los Angeles and all I got was this lousy sticker_.

_Best friend_. She never had one of those before.

When she was twenty-two, he stared at her, aghast, as her hands pressed against an invisible wall. She pounded against it, but the air was solid, impassable for her when her friends glided through effortlessly. He promised he would come back. She clung onto those words like a lifeline.

Now she’s twenty-three. Birthdays were never a cause for celebration—she always just did the same amount of work she always did, wore the same clothes she always did, and thought the same things she always did.

Only, this time, she wonders if this birthday will be her last.

She sits at her desk, waters her cactus, and ignores the empty chair where Dr Hilbert once sat every day beside her. She talks over Maxwell’s bright tone, bouncing around her head like a ghost she knows she isn’t haunted by. She sits on the phone with FBI agents and councillors and sheriffs and morticians and promises them _yes, my agent is authorised to access the file—footage—patient—whatever_.

She stares at the door Officer Eiffel used to walk through, and wonders if he’ll have any trinkets for her from this adventure.


	14. don't miss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ho ho ho i would just like to share rita's wonderful art of chapter 12 with u all because it is BEAUTIFUL
> 
> http://nastygaygoblin.tumblr.com/post/171662620747/ive-never-watched-supernatural-but-aiheras-fic

There’s a knock on the door.

Everyone’s eyes turn to it immediately—Pryce’s, from where she’s standing, bored, in the centre of a devil’s trap; Cutter’s, from where he leans on the desk, hand clenched into a fist; Lovelace’s, from where she stands between them, circled, like prey on an open savannah, her arms frozen to her sides with a twitch of Cutter’s wrist.

“Who is it?” Cutter asks, voice rising and falling with a cadence as though he were singing a song. It makes Lovelace’s skin crawl.

“Colonel Kepler, sir,” a voice responds. After a moment, it adds, “And Mr Jacobi, as you asked.”

An ugly smile twists across Cutter’s pristine features. “Come in, Warren,” he replies cheerfully, and slides off the desk surface to saunter over towards the door. As it opens, Jacobi is thrust inside gracelessly, tripping over and falling to his knees at Cutter’s feet. Kepler follows behind, face neutral, eyes cold. He closes the door.

Both of them look worse for wear. Jacobi is sporting a nasty gash along his temple, a bruise flowering on the cheekbone below. Kepler himself has spatters of blood on his clothes, but whatever wounds that caused them must have healed over. Still, his hair is slightly tousled, perhaps from some kind of impact, and his cut lip hasn’t quite healed yet. Jacobi looks far worse off, and Lovelace wonders briefly if the flecks of blood across his skin are from shattered glass. It’s the only description that would match his injuries.

“Just in time for the party,” Cutter murmurs. His finger delicately lifts Jacobi’s chin, and they meet eyes for a moment, Jacobi straining against the ropes binding his hands together at the wrists and Cutter conveying what must be some silent death sentence in his gaze. Lovelace swallows. She wonders where Eiffel is.

Jacobi drops his gaze first, and Cutter’s lips twitch up at the sight—even as an ancient being of power, he still enjoys winning a staring contest like a child. Figures.

Lovelace’s eyes trail upward to Kepler, stood by the door. There’s a faint unease in his eyes she didn’t expect to see there, but he hardens his gaze, forcing it from Jacobi on the ground to Cutter before him. “Sir,” he starts, “is that all you needed me for?”

“Oh, no,” Cutter purrs, “I wouldn’t want you to miss out on the fun.” He turns away from Jacobi and back to Lovelace, but makes no move towards her. “You’re going to kill Mr Jacobi, and then we can figure out this little _problem_ between the three of us.”

Kepler hesitates. “Problem, sir?”

Cutter’s response is through gritted teeth. “She won’t. _Die_.” The intensity melts away after a moment, and he chuckles lightly. “I don’t like not knowing how to kill something. You know that, Warren. But this little… _Heaven-sent_ gift basket is quite the puzzle.”

Vainly, Lovelace attempts to pull away from the binds holding her in place, but Cutter’s telekinetic grip on her doesn’t budge an inch. “Glad to be of annoyance,” she tells him smugly, and sees a flash of ice in his eyes before they return back to their mirthful gaze.

“Mm.” With that, he turns back around, pushing Jacobi down with his foot. Lovelace winces sympathetically at the audible crunch that comes from his ribcage as Cutter’s boot lands on it, and Jacobi cries out, struggling away from the pressure. Kepler doesn’t flinch. “Warren, are you armed?”

“No, sir.” Kepler looks almost sheepish. “All my gear is in the car.”

Cutter tilts his head slightly at that, but Kepler maintains his gaze. “Well,” Cutter murmurs, “I always liked to make an execution _personal_.”

Jacobi squeezes his eyes shut. Cutter tugs a pistol from his jacket, delicately passing it over to Kepler. Lovelace’s stare follows the Colt as it exchanges hands, and she twitches slightly, watching her entire plan crumble before her eyes.

Kepler checks the chamber. “One bullet,” he comments.

“I like to be prepared,” Cutter responds. “Just… don’t miss.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, sir,” Kepler confirms, and levels the gun at Jacobi’s head.

Part of Lovelace wants to look away—but there’s hardly something else to look at. Pryce, bleeding out uninterestedly on the rug? Cutter, lips glistening, staring at Kepler with the world’s most twisted version of bedroom eyes? No, Lovelace stays watching Jacobi, the tremble in his bound fingers, the silent plea in his eyes, and Kepler, the gun held steady and unshaking, the steely resolve of his furrowed brows. She can’t look away.

The moment before Kepler’s finger squeezes the trigger, she does find herself looking away after all. She’s seen enough bloodshed to know what happens after that.

A gunshot rings out, and she flinches, and a thick, draining silence is all that follows.

 

* * *

 

“Yes,” Hera says, eyes rolling at the man on the other side of the phone. “Agents Chalmers and Hume are investigating from my department. I can take this higher up, if you want, but my boss won’t be happy. He’s had this meeting with the White House scheduled for _weeks_.” Her eyes flicker to the side, to Hilbert’s chair, to where he would sigh heavily and roll his eyes when she came up with a lie that ridiculous. Her smile slips when she sees the chair is empty. When she remembers.

“Thank you,” she replies, and her voice is suddenly a lot curter. “I’m actually very busy myself, so if that was your only query? Wonderful. I’ll be sure to pass the message on to your boss and let him know there was a change in staff.”

This is her job. Telling hunters what they need to know about the monsters they’re hunting and telling professionals to let them through by whatever means necessary. She spent her life doing this. Now, she doesn’t even have a friend to accompany her through the long and arduous days.

Part of her feels… stupid. There’s no other word for it—stupid that she never questioned what she was doing here, stupid that she believed everything she was told, stupid that she let them use her like this for so long. More than anything, she feels stupid that she uncovered the truth and all she’s doing now is _exactly the same thing_. Answering calls. Reading books. Researching for the King of Hell and everyone under his employ.

She closes the book on her desk, an ancient, leather-bound monster written in Sumerian that she’s only allowed to touch wearing latex gloves. This would normally be the highlight of the day. She just doesn’t want to do it anymore.

She almost wants to stand up and walk out, as impossible as that would be, just to see how far she’d get. Unfortunately, the game is up; when they realised she knew she couldn’t leave, they gave up all pretence that she isn’t a prisoner. Twisting her ankle uncomfortably, she winces slightly at the clinking of metal against the chair in the otherwise-silent room. The shackle is tight. She doesn’t like it.

The phone rings again, and she picks it up. “Hello?” she asks, staring out the slim window. “Yes, you’ve reached her. Who am I speaking to?”

The voice on the other end of the line starts talking about something she couldn’t care less about. He describes his symptoms. She asks if it’s a poltergeist. He says they checked for that. She asks if they remembered to check the EMF readings. He says they did. She opens her mouth to reply, and then the door bursts open.

Hera jumps in shock. “I—” she stutters, and then, “I’ll have to call you back.”

The man barely has a chance to protest before she slams the phone back down on its cradle.

“Officer Eiffel?”

It’s him—breathing heavily, rubbing his shoulder with a wince, and pushing his curls out of his eyes. “Hey, baby,” he replies with a lopsided grin. “Did you miss me?”

“ _Eiffel_.” She stands up, meaning to vault the desk, push it aside, _anything_ , and clutch him. The shackle tugs her back, though, and she trips over, landing heavily on the surface.

Thankfully, Eiffel figures out what she was going for, and strides around the desk to sweep her into a tight hug. “We’re getting you out,” he murmurs into her hair. “We’re getting you out of here and you’re gonna be okay. Okay?”

“Okay,” she replies, but the words are muffled against his jacket. “Wait, who’s _we_?”

At that moment, Maxwell steps through the door.

“I’m we,” she replies cheerfully. Hera blinks.

“But you’re… dead.”

“No,” Maxwell says patiently, “I _was_ , but now I’m we.”

Hera’s stare turns on Eiffel. She’s pulled away from his grip by now—partly in defence, but there’s no way she’d actually be able to defend either of them against Maxwell in this state—and her lips part to ask more questions than she has the time to process.

“I trust her,” Eiffel says quickly. “Well, no, I really don’t, but I trust that she’s gonna help you escape. She’s not gonna hurt you.” He catches her hand before she can step back. “And I need you to trust _me_.”

She gazes at him with wide eyes, and he murmurs, “I won’t let her hurt you. Never again.”

Maxwell’s already heading over. “That’s very touching,” she coos, “but we have a _lot_ of people who want us _very_ dead right now. Can we hurry this up?”

Hera hesitates. Swallows. “What do you need me to do?”


	15. to be human

“What have you _done_?”

Lovelace opens her eyes. Pryce—Minkowski?— _someone_ is staring at Kepler, gaze furious, fists clenched. Lovelace glances from her to Kepler, his hand trembling minutely as he lowers the gun. With a grim determination, Lovelace forces herself to look down at Jacobi.

The body on the floor gives one final twitch. The blood is spreading quickly, seeping between floorboards, creeping up on her foot. Without thinking, she steps away from it delicately.

Wait.

She steps away?

“Holy crap,” Jacobi murmurs, coughing to hide the way his voice shakes. “For a moment, I really thought you were gonna do it.”

“I’m a good actor,” Kepler replies, but the laidback edge to his voice that Lovelace has grown used to hearing is now missing. His eyes are trained on Cutter, lifeless on the ground, a hole perfectly placed between his eyes. Jacobi doesn’t look away from him, either.

“You…”

All eyes turn to Pryce.

“…Don’t have any bullets left, Colonel.”

The fire in her gaze is nothing close to subsiding, but her lips curve up into a grin nonetheless. “What, you thought you could just kill Marcus and—and it would be over? Like you haven’t betrayed his entire company? His _kingdom_?” The grin is curling into a snarl, now. “And what was your plan for me?”

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Lovelace interjects, revelling in her newfound freedom by rolling her shoulders, “but who actually _are_ you? Like, I don’t even know where you fit into this. You’re just kind of here now.”

Kepler clears his throat. Lovelace’s attention turns to him expectantly. “Captain,” he starts, “that is Miranda Pryce. If Cutter were the King of Hell, I suppose that would make her… the Queen.”

“And I like my throne,” Pryce hisses. “With Marcus, or _without_ Marcus, I’m still the most powerful demon you’ll ever meet. You can’t kill me—not without that gun. Not without more bullets.”

“Then let’s do this the old-fashioned way,” Jacobi suggests lightly, and the room’s attention turns to him. “We could just—actually, first, Colonel, can you untie me? Feels kinda weird giving my big speech on the floor next to a dead body.”

Kepler raises an eyebrow at him, and he winces. “Pushing my luck? Got it. Say no more.”

Thankfully, the moment he starts to struggle to his feet alone, Kepler sighs and hauls him up. Jacobi looks beaten up enough that he might just pass out again the moment Kepler lets go of his arms. Still, he waits until his hands are freed, and shakes his wrists, looking back at Pryce. “We can exorcise her,” he says. “I know, I know, she’ll come back upstairs at some point, but that’s a problem for whoever’s in charge in a hundred years. We can all par-tay for the time being. Oh, and maybe figure out where to find more of those bullets.”

Kepler shrugs. “That… would work.”

“Hold it,” Lovelace snaps. “What about Minkowski.”

“She’s all yours, Captain,” Kepler replies coolly. “But either she stays possessed by Pryce, or you gamble that you can save her. With this plan… at least she has a chance.”

Lovelace’s eyes flicker between Kepler and Pryce. “Eiffel’s going to kill me.”

Pryce rolls her eyes, turning back to Kepler. “Why did you do it?” she asks. “Goddard Futuristics gave you everything. _Marcus_ gave you everything. And this is how you _thank_ him?”

“Mr Cutter gave me a lot,” Kepler agrees. “He gave me a team I trust more than anyone. And then he asked me to kill them.”

“You owned his soul!” she snaps. “He would’ve come back stronger and better in every way. As a human, he’s all but worthless, Warren, and you knew the moment you signed the contract with him that he’d die one day and he’d go _straight_ to Hell. He belongs there. Not me.”

“ _He_ can hear you, by the way,” Jacobi interjects.

Kepler regards Pryce for a long time. “Do you remember what it was to be human, Dr Pryce?”

She scoffs. “Of course not.”

He hums in agreement, tucking the gun into his jacket lining. “Neither do I. But I think I’d like to learn again, maybe.”

“Warren—”

Kepler’s eyes, mirthful, focus on Lovelace now. “I’ll leave the exorcism with you, since I’d rather not take that trip downstairs myself.” He heads to the door. “Give my best to Lieutenant Minkowski.”

The door opens, and shuts, and Lovelace looks at Jacobi. “No time like the present, then,” she mutters, and starts the exorcism. “ _Exorcizamus te_ ,” she starts, voice louder now, “ _omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica, ergo draco maledicte, ut ecclesiam tuam secura, tibi facias libertate servire, te rogamus… audi nos._ ”

Pryce erupts into smoke, spilling from Minkowski and through the floorboards on what Lovelace hopes is a _very_ long descent down. “Like riding a bike,” she murmurs, and Jacobi snorts.

As the last of the smoke dissipates, she strides forward, catching Minkowski in her arms as she falls backwards. “Lovelace?” Minkowski asks, nose scrunching up in confusion. Her voice sounds weak.

“Hey,” Lovelace replies gently. “It’s okay, I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

“Where’s… Eiffel?” As she talks, her eyes flutter closed. “And… Hera?”

Jacobi clears his throat. “We—Kepler and I—got the portal open to Hell. Eiffel was down there for a _long_ time, but he’s topside, now, with Maxwell. They’re getting Hera out right now.”

“Oh,” Minkowski says simply, and slumps completely into Lovelace’s arms. “That’s… good.”

“ _Hey_.” Lovelace’s voice is sharp. “Minkowski, eyes open. You’re not allowed to give up. We just _won_.” As she says it, her voice cracks. “Come on, I’m supposed to take you out for a beer and tell you I was right about everything.”

A breathy laugh escapes Minkowski’s lips, and a trickle of blood follows. “I might have to—have to give you a rain check… on that.”

At that moment, the door bursts open, and they all look up to see Eiffel, Hera and Maxwell stumbling inside. Maxwell’s eyes light up when she sees Jacobi, and he strides towards her, pulling her wordlessly into a tight hug. They exchange some brief words, and if Lovelace has learned anything, she knows they were probably matching in sarcasm and affection alike. Her gaze shifts to Eiffel and Hera, and for a pair that she’s only known a handful of days, she can’t believe just how glad she is to see them again.

“Minkowski,” Eiffel says, “no, no, what—what _happened_?”

Lovelace hauls Minkowski up into her arms. “Long story,” she replies curtly. “But we can still—”

She’s interrupted by a cough as Minkowski convulses in her arms. She looks eerily pale, and Lovelace’s heart jumps slightly. “I’m not,” Minkowski tries to say, “not, I can’t… I just…”

“Lieutenant?” Hera asks, eyes wide. Lovelace notices her fingers curl around Eiffel’s wrist.

A tear slips out from the corner of Minkowski’s eye. “I’m glad you’re okay, Hera.” And then, so quiet that they wouldn’t have heard it were it not for the stony silence blanketing the room otherwise: “Take care of Doug.”

 

* * *

 

Eiffel doesn’t sleep peacefully.

He dreams of Anne—pushing her on the swing set, lifting her high above his head, watching her knock down block towers as tall as her. He dreams of lazy summer evenings, where she balanced on his knee and he read from a story book about a teddy bear looking for his friends. He dreams of plaiting her long, dark hair, pressing kisses to her jaw as she giggled, tucking his fingers under her ribs and hearing her shriek at the tickling sensation.

He dreams of Anne—forcing his trembling hands to steady as he picks her up, holding her against his chest as they hid, shushing her gently as she cried. He dreams of a cold November night where his life was pushed off the rails, where the world was never the same again. He dreams of a blood-curdling scream, covering his ears with his hands and curling up as the stranger—intruder— _monster_ tried to kill him. He dreams of the blood that trickled from his daughter’s ears and the way she screamed when she touched it, and the way she screamed more when she couldn’t hear herself. He dreams of stumbling out of the house, climbing into the car, running for his life. He dreams of crashing the car. He dreams of the weight of handcuffs against his wrists. He dreams of a man asking him if he did this to his daughter, and he dreams of his own miserable silence.

Occasionally, he dreams of Mr Cutter, fingers steepled against the desk as he offers him the opportunity of a lifetime.

He gets to dream of Hell, now, too. Oppressive corridors that stretch for miles and miles and days and days; Maxwell with her smoky aura, and sometimes when he looks down his own hands have the same texture; bricks crumbling, dust suffocating, walls that collapse in and bury him under. There are dense bricks, unyielding bricks, and no portal. He punches the wall and his knuckles bleed smoke. He’s trapped.

He wakes up with a gasp, Hera’s hand wrapping around his wrist as his chest constricts around air he can’t breathe. “Officer Eiffel, breathe,” she tells him, cupping his cheek and letting her forehead rest against his as he fights to remember where he is.

Blinking back tears, he mumbles, “Hera.”

“I’m here.” Her fingers card through his hair, and he relaxes slowly but surely into the touch. “I’m here, you’re safe, and it’s over. It’s all over.”

He tilts his head back from her, gazing at the ceiling for a brief moment before straightening up. He’s in a hard, plastic chair—so is she. The lights are sterile and the room is quiet. There’s a quiet beeping from around the corner.

Hospital.

“Minkowski?” he asks blearily, and Hera just shushes him.

“It’s going to be okay.”

 

* * *

 

The first thing she notices is the pain. The second thing she notices is the light. The third thing she notices, of course—unmissable, haloed, ethereal—is the angel.

“Am I dead?” Renée asks, pitifully simplistic.

Lovelace snorts. As she moves forward, the light spilling through the window silhouettes her further. Minkowski doesn’t think she’s seen anything more radiant in her life. “No,” Lovelace replies. “And if you weren’t totally out of it, right now, I’d be making fun of you _so_ hard for that.”

Minkowski’s nose scrunches up slightly in confusion. “What… happened?”

Coal-dark eyes flicker to the side for a brief moment, but before Minkowski has the chance to comment, Lovelace is staring at her again. “You were possessed,” she says, voice clipped with the air of someone who has better places to be, distanced and emotionless, “by some demon called Pryce. Kepler turned against Cutter and he and Jacobi got Eiffel and Maxwell out of Hell. Cutter’s dead. Pryce shot you and we exorcised her outta you. And… now you’re here.”

“Eiffel?”

“Out in the waiting room.”

Minkowski exhales slowly. “Hera?”

“Next to him, as far as I’m aware.”

A thousand thoughts flicker through Minkowski’s head at once. “What about,” she starts, but there are too many questions on the tip of her tongue to ask just one. _How is Cutter dead? Where’s Kepler? Who is Pryce? How was I possessed? How did Hera—_

“Relax,” Lovelace interrupts, and she pushes Minkowski’s head back down against the pillow firmly but gently. “Everyone’s okay. We’re just glad you’re not dead. It was pretty touch-and-go for a while back there.”

Minkowski opens her mouth to reply, but Lovelace commands her: “ _Relax_.” The tone with which she instructs her is so unyielding that Minkowski finds her parted lips pressing together, blinking widely at the woman with a sharp voice and a halo. Lovelace’s hand slips from Minkowski’s forehead, hovering at her shoulder for a single, hesitant moment.

She pulls her hand back. Minkowski catches it before Lovelace can actually pull away.

“Thank you,” she murmurs, and Lovelace chuckles uncomfortably.

“Hey, now, let’s not say things we’ll regret in the morning while we’re hopped up on painkillers.”

“I mean it,” Minkowski insists. “You changed my life. Ruined it, sure, but it’s… You told me things I needed to know. You saved me. You saved Eiffel. Hell, you kind of saved the world, as far as I’m aware.” She lets her eyes fall closed. “If Heaven brought you back for this, then they couldn’t have picked a better person to do the job.”

Lovelace hums quietly. “Sorry I tackled you when we first met.”

The words startle a laugh from Minkowski, and she responds, “Sorry I tied you to a tree.”

After a moment, both their gazes drift to where their fingers have intertwined. Lovelace is the first to pull back, and Minkowski’s hand drops to the bed. “You should—” Lovelace coughs. “You should get some sleep. We’ve probably got a lot of work coming up, now we just destroyed Hell’s hierarchy.”

“Right,” Minkowski agrees. “You should get some rest too.”

Lovelace nods curtly and stands up, the chair scraping against the ground harshly in the otherwise-quiet room. Her exit is swift, but as the door swings shut after her, Minkowski catches a glance of her through the window.

As Lovelace looks back, their eyes meet, and Minkowski thinks that maybe—just maybe—she can still feel the imprint where Lovelace’s fingers pressed against hers.

(And maybe—just maybe—she already misses it.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one - making you all think jacobi was dead was so much fun and i get why urbina did it now  
> two - the next chapter is the last chapter!


	16. family

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the final chapter! thank you so much for all your support in writing this (and i will say more at the end)

(one month later.)

 

* * *

 

Kepler leans against the edge of the desk. His presence is still authoritative, his gaze cold, his posture straight. Jacobi feels the need to lift his chin just by looking at him. His fingers are looped around his other wrist, pulling his hands behind his back automatically, and his eyes are lowered slightly.

“It’s been a long month without you,” Kepler murmurs, shattering the silence. “Dare I say, I missed your company.”

Jacobi swallows. “How’s Goddard doing?” he asks. “Or… Hell. Or, um, everything.”

Kepler stares at him evenly for a long minute. When his lips eventually part to answer, they’re downturned at the corners. “The company is a wreck.” It’s the most honest Jacobi’s ever heard him sound. “Word got out that Cutter is dead, and that Pryce is… restrained, and everyone’s eyeing up the empty throne. Factions have already been formed. Potential successors have already been assassinated. The smart few are asking who killed him.”

“What’re you gonna do?”

The air is thick with tension. “Hell… needs a king,” Kepler replies carefully. “You know this. I know this. The hierarchy with Cutter at the top was the only thing stopping demons from running wild across the world like animals.”

Jacobi frowns. “So, what, you’re gonna let them—”

“No.” His tone shuts Jacobi up. “I want to regain the trust of the hunters finding out about… the truth. I want to keep the order of the world we’re in. I want demons to stay on one side of the veil, and humans to stay on the other. Cutter wasn’t wrong.”

“You still shot him,” Jacobi throws back.

Kepler’s lips twitch up faintly. “I did.” He pushes off from the table, and one hand reaches up to graze the backs of his knuckles over Jacobi’s cheek. Jacobi’s eyelids flutter closed. “Cutter was wrong about _some_ things, I believe,” he murmurs.

Jacobi leans in, desperate, but Kepler stops him with a hand pressed to his shoulder. “I missed you too,” he teases lowly, “but there’s something I need to discuss with you.” He cups Jacobi’s cheek. The gaze he fixes him with seems less romantic and more scrutinising. “It would mean a lot to me if yourself and Dr Maxwell stayed in the company. The hunters are free to do what they want—really, they’re not worth the energy—but you are… valuable.”

“Special?”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself.” Kepler’s smiling slightly. “But what do you say?”

Lips part to agree unhesitatingly—he knows Maxwell _would_ like to come back—but then he pauses. Remembers. And, with a lump in his throat and eyes lowering to avoid Kepler’s gaze, Jacobi replies, “On one condition.”

Kepler raises an eyebrow.

“I want my soul back.”

Kepler raises both eyebrows. “You… want…” His voice drags on every word uncomfortably, and Jacobi feels as though his boss is dragging his feet with them too. “I see.”

“Maxwell has ownership of herself,” Jacobi blurts out, clawing at an attempt to justify himself. “I can’t stay here knowing I’m going to end up downstairs and she’s going up. I can’t come back as some demon who doesn’t even remember my best friend. I just—”

Kepler interrupts him with a kiss. Jacobi, helpless, clutches onto the lapels of Kepler’s jacket and kisses back.

“It’s yours,” Kepler whispers against his lower lip. “The contract is void. I told Mr Cutter I wanted to learn how to be human, and I hardly doubt the first step is to condemn others to a damnation they don’t deserve.”

“Aw,” Jacobi croons. “You deserve a medal for that, sir.”

“I think I know a better prize,” Kepler replies, and presses his lips to Jacobi’s again.

 

* * *

 

“Holy crap,” Eiffel murmurs, and then, “holy _crap_. You did it?”

“ _We_ did it,” Hera replies, her eyes sparkling, and she leans in as Eiffel wraps her in a tight hug. He picks her up with the motion, spinning her around once, and she clings on with a delighted giggle slipping from between her lips before he sets her down.

His hand cups her cheek. “You’re such a goddamn genius,” he praises, and she shies away from the compliment.

“It wasn’t just me,” Hera protests. “Maxwell helped me out with a lot of it. And she gathered most of the ingredients for the spell. I was just in charge of… finding and translating it?”

“Something as simple as this?” Maxwell says, appearing at Hera’s shoulder. “I could’ve done it in my sleep. With my hands tied behind my back. And a poltergeist on my heel. While I was in the depths of Hell—”

“It took you four days just to find the ingredients,” Hera replies, unimpressed, and Maxwell bumps into her. She bumps right back. There’s a faint smile curling at their lips, and when Hera glances back to Eiffel, she can tell it hasn’t gone unnoticed.

He clears his throat. “Uh, Maxwell, can I talk to Hera for a moment? Alone?”

Maxwell’s eyes glance between them briefly, but she merely shrugs in response. “Sure. I’ve gotta call Daniel, anyway.” With that, she picks up her jacket, stepping outside the room and tugging out her phone as she leaves.

Eiffel waits until she’s gone before turning to look back at Hera. He raises his eyebrow. “How much are you trusting her, here?”

“She’s not going to betray us,” Hera replies confidently, squeezing Eiffel’s hand. He squeezes back half-heartedly. “Once you get past the whole… selling her soul to a death corporation and helping capture us and trying to kill us, she’s pretty chill.”

“No offence, sweetheart, but that is a _lot_ of stuff to get past.”

Hera’s smile only widens. “I really appreciate the _protective older brother_ thing you’ve got going on, but—”

“The _what_?” Eiffel looks scandalised.

“Maxwell explained it to me,” she replies easily. “You’re just looking out for me because you think it’s your job to do that. And—I mean, I appreciate it. I really do. It’s just…” She glances back at the door Maxwell left through, and there’s something slightly wistful in her gaze now. “She gets me—like, _really_ gets me. The way nobody else ever has. And, sure, her best friend is dating a crossroads demon and she helped capture me, but it’s… It was all because of Cutter. And he’s gone, now. And I really think this’ll—that being _around_ her, will be good for me.”

Eiffel looks unconvinced, so Hera leans in conspiratorially and whispers, “Don’t worry, you’re still my best friend.”

He huffs a faint laugh. But before he can reply, Maxwell sticks her head back through the door and says, “Hey, cute moment, but I just got a text from Lovelace. They’re nearly here.”

 

* * *

 

“We’ve been driving for almost an hour,” Minkowski complains for the third time, “and this blindfold is _really_ itchy. Come on. Just tell me where we’re going.”

Lovelace doesn’t bother to smother the grin stretching across her face, as Minkowski can’t see it. A moment passes before she responds. “I told you, it’s a surprise. You’ve got one clue, and it’s that you’d recognise this place—hence the blindfold. Beyond that, you can sit there and wonder if you’re getting kidnapped.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Minkowski mutters.

A huff of a laugh escapes Lovelace’s parted lips as she turns the corner, eyes focused on the road. “Bad monster hunt, or bad date?”

“You know,” her partner replies slyly, “those aren’t always mutually exclusive.” Lovelace laughs again. “I mean, look at us. We turned monster hunting into—uh, _dating_ , pretty easily.”

“You’re right.” Lovelace turns onto another road. “Nothing says romance like a bouquet of stakes.”

“The lavender perfume was a nice touch.”

Lovelace’s gaze flickers over to where Minkowski is sat, blindfolded, back straight, in the passenger seat. “God knows what our anniversary gifts are going to end up like,” she replies, and the depth of what she just said only hits her a moment later.

Minkowski is quiet for a moment. “Someone’s… planning ahead.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“No,” and she interrupts her properly, turning to look at Lovelace even though the blindfold stops her from actually _seeing_ her. Lovelace stares ahead unblinkingly. “That’s—I like it.”

Neither of them speak for a moment.

“Well, we’re here,” Lovelace says brightly, changing the subject as she pulls into the drive. Minkowski sits up again, alert, and fumbles for the door handle blindly, but Lovelace is already climbing out of the car and jogging around to open the door for her. She takes her hand like a gentleman guiding his date onto the red carpet, and with a slight flourish, turns Minkowski to face the house. “Now, Lieutenant,” she warns, “I want you to promise you won’t get weird about this. I know what I’m doing. Trust me.”

Minkowski’s nose scrunches up slightly, and Lovelace can’t help but take a moment to admire just how adorable it looks. “Is this some sort of strange sex thing? I already said no to the—”

“ _No_ ,” she interrupts hastily, “no, it’s not.” One hand lifts up to pull the knot loose at the back of the scarf covering Minkowski’s eyes, and the other lands lightly on her waist. The scarf falls.

Minkowski’s lips part in confusion. “This is…”

“Welcome home,” Lovelace replies, and presses a kiss to her temple. “I know you don’t like coming back here. But there’s something inside that I want you to see.”

Another beat passes, but soon, Minkowski’s boots are crunching across the gravel as she makes her way towards the front door. It’s slightly ajar; she pushes it open tentatively, lips pressed together, and Lovelace can tell she’s been tense since the moment her eyes fell on the house. She follows behind.

“I haven’t been here since Dominik died,” Minkowski murmurs, fingers skating along the wallpaper as she walks down the entrance corridor. “Why are we here?”

“Because there’s someone I wanted you to see,” Lovelace replies, and when Minkowski glances back to her she nods at the door to the lounge. Minkowski pushes the door open and steps inside.

Eiffel and Hera are standing inside, just as expected—Eiffel’s arms are spread with his fingers wiggling, and he sings, “Ta-da!” as Hera grins. The room is dark, except for the light cast from the candles in the centre of the floor. Lovelace can’t see Maxwell, but she knows she must have been here, since her car was parked in the drive—briefly, her gaze flickers round the room, just to make sure she isn’t present.

“Whaaaat are you doing,” Minkowski says flatly.

Both Hera and Eiffel move to the side to gesture to the set-up in the centre of the room: five candles outline an intricate sigil drawn on a mat on the ground, and in the centre, a bowl full of indiscriminate ingredients (which, in Lovelace’s eyes, just look like twigs and herbs) lay presented to the group.

Hera clears her throat. “It’s just a little something,” she starts, “and it—well, it was Officer Eiffel’s idea, and Captain Lovelace kind of pulled it all together, and I’ve been working with Dr Maxwell for the last couple of weeks to get it right, but… it’s for you.”

Minkowski’s brow furrows. “What does it do?”

“It, um…” Hera hesitates. “Well, you should find out for yourself, really.”

With that, she turns around, dropping some kind of powder into the bowl and saying something in Latin. The bowl flares up into a blue fire for a brief moment—but, in the blink of an eye, it disappears.

Nothing happens.

But then—

“Oh my god,” Minkowski breathes, as the figure of a man begins to collect like mist in the middle of the circle of candles. “This isn’t—what the hell did you guys _do_?”

“You deserved closure,” says Lovelace. “This is the closest we could get.”

She presses another kiss to Minkowski’s temple, and a moment later, the fully-formed ghost of Dominik Koudelka stands in the centre of the circle.

“Renée?” he asks, stepping forward. “Holy… is that really you?”

Her hand presses to her mouth. Lovelace takes a step back, and beckons Hera and Eiffel to follow her to the door. “We’ll give you two some time alone,” she says, and slips out just as a muffled sob falls from Minkowski’s lips.

Hera closes the door behind her. “For a moment, I thought it hadn’t worked,” she says, and laughs breathily. “Do you think it was the right thing? You know, dragging up an old wound like that?”

“It hadn’t healed,” Eiffel murmurs. “Maybe after this, it could.”

At that, Lovelace leans against the wall, raising an eyebrow. “Speaking of old wounds,” she starts, and Eiffel looks uncomfortable under the harshness of her gaze, “how’s the whole _reconnecting with your daughter_ mission going?”

“I’d take wandering around Hell for another few weeks over it,” he jokes in response, but the smile slips ever so slightly. “She’s… a good kid. I don’t know if I actually deserve to—you know.”

Hera’s fingers intertwine with his, and she squeezes his hand gently. “These things take time,” she says. “Um, probably. Just…”

“Just be grateful you don’t have to summon ghosts to talk to her,” Lovelace finishes for her, and Eiffel swallows drily and nods.

“I guess things have changed,” he mutters. “She’s got her family, and I’ve—” He glances away, before looking between Hera and Lovelace almost shyly. “Well, you know. I’ve got mine.”

_Family_.

It’s a long time since Lovelace belonged to one of those, but she reckons she could get used to it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i CANNOT BELIEVE it's over
> 
> this piece was written for the wolf 359 christmas big bang (2017) and i have enjoyed every minute of it ahdjkvlsdfhkv
> 
> you guys have been so supportive with all the comments and messages (and occasionally art which was ... stunning), but i just wanna thank u guys for bothering to get to the end. it was an ambitious project for me but i'm really glad i did it (and it was originally supposed to be 15k which tells u how much i wrote and rewrote the storyline throughout)
> 
> i hope you all enjoyed! lemme know how you feel about me actually giving u a happy ending in a fanfic for the first time in my life, too, bc i know it shocked some of you

**Author's Note:**

> as always, find me @aihera on tumblr


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